
% 



f 


« 









i 

$ 

\ 













X 



4 


j 



A 


/ 


I 


% 


4 







•I 


9 


t 




« 

I * 



or1 


I 






i 




1 ^ 



I 





* -V* 


i--V ^ 


r" 








L ■ 


Vr 


tA-- 








- <rj.”=<iv*^-o. 


rj 


^ ?■• *< 




C' 


■ /*•) 


d ' " 

• /■'■ 










;' '■' Cn i <? ’ . 


\ 








■■•i’ '^'•-- 

% 

X' 


c;' 


C-«<‘ 


■ ®> 






f-:' 






o 


•i ’» 


■* . 


'. .-i^- 


J^'- 

(? 


i ■ !.' 

y • 




>■ 


o 



« 


•*. 

m 


> 




-V 


ADVENTURES IN PORTUGAL. 




>- 


(7 




c> 



■» ^ 


X4^ 


^ ty. 


/S 


w m 




c* 




MY 


EARLY ADVENTURES 

DURING THE 

PENINSULAR CAMPAIGNS 


OF 


NAPOLEON. 



BY THE AUTHOR OP 

“ A Visit to My Birth Blace,” “ Abbey of Innismoyle,” &c. 


B O S T O N. 

JAMES LORING. 

1834 . 



i 


/ 


ff 

MY ADVENTURES. 


CHAPTER I. 

A RETURN HOME, 

Peace had been proclaimed, the tocsin of 
war had ceased to sound over affrighted Eu- 
rope, and he who had been the world’s won- 
der and the nations’ dread, was left to vent 
the impetuous breathings of his ambitious soul, 
a lonely exile on St. Helena’s barren rock ; 
— armies were disbanding, exiles seeking 
their country, soldiers their homes : and I 
too, after leaving many a brave comrade — 
aye, and many a tender friend to sleep their 
their long, long sleep in a foreign land, re- 
turned from the scenes of contest, where lay 
the scarce green graves of those w^ho had 
been my companions in many a hard cam- 
paign and many a well-fought field, and 
sought once more the quiet secluded spot 
that had been my home. 

2 


6 


MY ADVENTURES 


What happiness is it, in this world of tur- 
moil, of coldness, selfishness, misery — to 
have some one spot of earth to which the 
heart can turn, when rejected, sickened, 
W’ounded, it longs for sympathy, tenderness, 

' affection, and thinks of home and the love of 
relatives, when the mind is satiated with false 
enjoyments, wearied with cares, clouded with 
griefs ; how dear, to turn to the scenes of 
youthful days, of pure delights, of home-bred 
happiness ! Yes, the ambitious youth, pant- 
ing after delusive honours or fancied happi- 
ness, may long to exchange the dull routine 
of domestic life for more animated, and stir- 
ring scenes ; but, let his lot be high or low, 
be his most sanguine day-dreams verified, and 
he placed on a higher pinnacle of fame, than 
ever in fancy his youthful ambition dared to 
climb ; or let him still toil after the phantoms 
of his pursuit, that like the illusive mirage, 
provoke still higher the thirst they will not 
satisfy — still though he may i-eem to have 
left far behind him the thoughts of such tame 
pleasures, such boyish times, his heart will 
sometimes turn back in secret, to drain from 
memory one drop of their sweetness ; it may 
be, he could not now endure the things that 
seem so listless, so uninteresting, and he sighs 
not that they are passed away, but that he is 
changed. 

Such thoughts occupied my mind, as I 
slowly rode along a very lonely road leading. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


7 


to my father’s house. What a change had a 
little space of time produced ; but lately I 
had been in the hurry and din of war, in a 
foreign land, or among subdued enemies ; 
now in my own native country, in the full 
feeling of peace and security I rode on among 
familiar scenes ; all that hurry, excitement, 
and continual expectation of change in which 
a soldier lives, when in the seat of war, had 
died away, and in their room had come the 
calm, the softening, but not uninteresting feel- 
ings that usually ^11 and subdue the mind of 
one, who, after years of absence, years spent 
in varied and agitating scenes, turns away 
from the turbulence, the confusion of the wide 
unsocial world to seek for the spot memory 
presents as the retreat of peace, of happiness 
and love, the abode of all that is pure, and 
calm, and good, because it was the abode of 
his childhood and youth, before he had wan- 
dered out on this great Babel, where the am- 
bition of one, works the wo of millions, where 
men strive and labour and ‘ weary themselves 
for very vanity and then vent in the secret 
breathings of hearts that know their own bit- 
terness, the despondings that must be kept 
concealed from their fellow beings. ‘ All is 
vanity and vexation of spirit.’ 

Many thoughts, and many tender and sub- 
duing recollections, filled my mind as I ap- 
proached the old glebe-house, where I had 
once formed one of a large and happy family : 


8 


MY ADVENTURES 


I had left it years ago, when rny cheek was 
unsunned, and my brow unbent ; the tall, 
fair stripling was now become a strong-built 
man, the unthinking youth — but it matters 
not'what 1 had been, or what I was ; I was 
changed, and the changes I had felt in myself, 
I anticipated in the scenes I was revisiting. 
Many a change had, I knew, taken place 
among those who once inhabited them, and 
the recollection brought wdth it a feeling of 
sadness ; but impatient to meet all I could 
now meet at home, 1 spurred on my horse, 
that had been left to choose his own pace, 
and rode hastily forward, without once turning 
my head to right or to left as 1 passed, until 
I stopped at the well-remembered door, and 
springing from my saddle, flung the reins on 
his neck, entered the hall, and opened the 
parlour door — there 1 stopped — there was 
no bounding of sisters with their looks of joy 
to meet my embraces ; no outstretched hands, 
and cordial greetings of affectionate brothers 
— at opposite sides of the fire-place, sat a 
little old man, with a black velvet cap cover- 
ing the t p of his head, his arms resting on 
the elbows of the easy chair in which he lay 
reclined, and his eyes fixed on the fire ; and 
a neat looking elderly lady, in a dark grey 
gown, a close cap, and a pair of spectacles. 
1 stood and looked at them till she turned 
round and raised her spectacles, and he rose 
from his seat and opened his large but much 


IN PORTUGAL. 


9 


dimmed eyes, and dropped his nether lip — 
‘Father, Mother!’ She was in my armSj 
and his were widely expanded to receive his 
long absent, but not forgotten boy, as he still 
continued to call the son who had already 
numbered one and thirty years. 

Seated between the dear old pair, I forgot 
for a time, that in my former visits other looks 
and other hands had greeted me — that many 
another lip had pronounced my welcome, and 
younger and brighter eyes sparkled round our 
social hearth. Dinner ended, I drew my 
chair again to the fire, and thus glanced re- 
trospectively at the domestic information I 
had acquired while it was passing ; ‘ So Anna 
has now six children, and Charles four, and 
dear Emily two, and little Sophy has married 
young Lumley, the boy I taught to ride our 
old grey pony when I first got leave of ab- 
sence. Well, how time passes !’ 

‘ Yes, they have all left me to myself,’ said 
my father — ‘ they are all settled in the world 
— Well, God be with them.’ 

‘ Amen I’ I fervently ejaculated, for I felt 
the wish, though a common one, comprised 
in it all the good I could desire for my friends. 

My dear mother put her hand on mine, 
and looked at me with her tearful eyes, as if 
her heart flew off to each of the several ob- 
jects for whom the prayer was breathed, and 
felt again a mother’s solicitude, and a mother’s 
love. ‘Still my own affectionate hoy,’ she 


10 


MY ADVENTURES 


said, and smiling as I kissed the withered 
cheek to which I had often been pressed when 
it was fresher and fairer, went out of the room. 

My father continued to tell me, how well 
he had performed his duty to his children ; 
but as he spoke, he reclined still more and 
more in his comfortable chair, as if the re- 
membrance of his past activity afforded an 
additional reason for patiently submitting to 
fhe weaknesses and enjoying the repose of 
age. Not even the presence of a long absent 
son was sufficient to make him forego the in- 
dulgence of his usual nap, his head gradually 
sunk lower and lower over the arm of his 
chair — and after looking at him a few minutes 
with that blended feeling of respect and pity, 
with which we generally regard extreme old 
age, and that emotion of filial affection and 
regret, which the remembrance of what he 
had been, and the view of what he was, 
awakened — I found the image of other days 
was recurring, awakening some saddening 
ideas, and opening up to rriy eye scenes that 
had passed away forever ; so I rose, and 
leaving the room as quietly as I could, though 
I believe there was little fear of arousing my 
poor father, I took my hat and went out to 
the shrubbery adjoining the house. 

I walked on some way, too nruch engaged 
in thought to observe the alterations that had 
been made in 

‘Scenes remembered well, and dear»* 


IN PORTUGAL. 


11 


till stiking my foot against a tree that had 
fallen across the path, I stopped apd looked 
around. — Well, I was changed myself — why 
did a change in everything else give me that 
uneasy and saddening sensation that urged 
me to pursue my walk wdth double speed, in 
the hope of diverting the melancholy of my 
feelings ; so I went on as heedlessly as 1 
could, till I was again arrested by — will the 
toil-worn soldier smile ? — a ruined bow'er ! — 
Yet so it was — a bower I had made in other 
days ; and there it lay in its forlornness ; the 
long tangled clymatis sweeping the ground, 
or clinging still here and there by its slight 
withered stems to the support of some stout 
neighbour that had sprung from the sapling I 
had left there to a well-grown tree ; and 
amidst all the desolations, alone, alive, while 

‘Its mates of the garden lay scentless and dead,’ 

grew one poor faded, cold looking rose, sur- 
viving the wreck of kindred, the loss of com- 
panionship, looking on like some poor child 
of sorrow, faded and pale at the ruin that was 
strewn around, on the scene where ‘ all its 
pleasant things were laid waste.’ And then, 
too, while 1 looked on it, came thoughts of 
those I had seen seated in that bower, as fair, 
as fresh as the sweet blossoms that clung 
around it, and where were they ? — Oh ! that 
ruined bower — how apt a picture did it seem 
of my heart when I murmured — gone — 


12 


MY ADVENTURES 


gone — gone ; are these feminine sensibilities, 
what some would say, were unbefitting a man, 
and a soldier? — be it so — I at least felt 
them, and many of my brave companions 
have felt them too. 

But there is sometimes a pang in such re- 
miniscences as mine that many would not like 
to feel — and so they hurry from what excites 
it, and teach their faces to smile, and whisper 
to themselves that they are happy ; time was, 
when I would have done so, when I would 
have flown from thoughts so saddening to 
anything that offered a Lethe to remembrance 
— though a monitor I could not silence, warn- 
ed me there was poison in the draught : but 
now 1 sought not the revel, the wild roar of 
senseless merriment, the circle of gaiety, the 
stirring exercise, the bustle of active life ; I 
sought the repository of the dead — the tomb 
of my friends — through the now unshaded 
walk, and over the leaf-strewn path I trod 
hastily ; I crossed the green field and stepped 
over the well-known stile, and got within the 
precincts of our church-yard ; through its 
weedy enclosure I passed, neglected and wild 
as it was, till I came to a large white stone, 
and there I stopped. 

Reader, there you must leave me — let us, 
if you will, pursue a soldier’s retrospections 
to that spot, but there you shall not see him 
— the moonlight beam shone on him, and if 
he had a witness it was one on high. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


13 


CHAPTER 11. 


It was a bright and lovely morning when, 
with the troops destined to reinforce the Brit- 
ish army in the Peninsula, I set sail for the 
shores of Portugal. For this day I had long- 
ed, and my heart had beaten high at the pros- 
pect of its coming ; it came — and though all 
was bustle, excitement, interest, and hope, I 
was sad and silent : I blamed myself for this 
want of animation ; but I turned and looked 
upon a small piece of crape on my left arm, 
and felt that not even the prospect of military 
glory, not the apparent realization of all my 
boyish day-dreams, could afford a counter- 
poise to the deadening weight of real sorrow. 

But as the English shores lessened, and at 
last receded from sight, my spirits lightened, 
I listened to the conversation around me, my 
sullen apathy began to disappear, and when 
the vessel cast anchor in the Lisbon harbour, 
I felt once more alive to the feelings that in- 
spire the youthful soldier’s breast. 

What a new and busy scene was before 
me ! every thing was foreign and was new — 
in harbour, on shore, and in the prospects 
that lay around us ; and on the deck of our 


14 


MY ADVENTURES 


ship all was hurry, and hope, and eagerness, 
among those who hailed with joy the approach 
of a military campaign, and the first com- 
mencement of a soldier’s life. Ah ! as the 
boats, with their red-sashed oars-men, drew 
up to the vessel’s side to convey our troops to 
shore, many a heart beat high and hopefully 
that was to cease its beat forever before we 
retraced our way over the waters we had 
crossed ! 

In the evening I stole away from my mess 
companions, who were chatting over the prob- 
able events that were before them, and enjoy- 
ing in careless happiness the passing moment, 
aud walked out alone. Three months before 
how differently should I have felt in rambling 
thus about a foreign city, where every thing 
was strange and interesting, and in entering 
on the commencement of my real military 
life — a new scene, and one that would have 
occupied and amused, was around me ; a 
new career, and one that I had wished and 
longed for, was before me ; but the recollec- 
tion of scenes I had lately witnessed would 
not fade, and the sadness that dwelt in my 
own heart threw its colouring over every thing 
else. 

When I returned, some of my companions 
were just setting off to the theatre. I had no 
inclination to go, but the fear of ridicule made 
me acquiesce in many a thing that I should 
otherwise have declined j and so stifling, as 


IN PORTUGAL, 


15 


well as I could, the better thoughts that had 
arisen, with their soft, saddening, holy influ- 
ence on my mind during my solitary rambles^ 
I went witji them. 

Determined, perhaps, to be out of humour 
with our evening’s entertainment, I soon found 
the comic scene insupportable, and condemn- 
ing it as a piece of senseless and awkward 
buffoonery, I left the house before it was 
ended, with the intention of returning directly 
to the British quarters. It was late in the 
evening, sounds were fast dying away, the 
hurrying to and fro of the crowd had ceased 
— it was the hour of reflection, the season of 
thought. I saw a light gleaming within the 
walls of a church, the doors of which, as is 
customary in Roman Catholic countries, stood 
open ; 1 went in : all was silent, solitary, 
solemn ; the large, spacious building was al- 
most enveloped in gloom, or illuminated only 
by the dimly burning candles that were placed 
at some shrines. Before the image of a fe- 
male saint, nearly opposite to where I stood, 
some lights burned brighter ; and before that 
image a living and breathing form lay pros- 
trated in intense devotion. I stood and looked 
on the scene — it was perhaps some poor 
child of sorrow methought, who dare not, 
could not, reveal to mortal, the agonized feel- 
ings that lay like a slow consuming fire pent 
up within his breast, who thus in the privacy 
of the sanctuary unbosomed the bitter burdea 


16 


MY ADVENTURES 


that lay dark upon his soul, and hidden from 
the eye of proud, unfeeling, selfish man, 
poured out the tale of his griefs, his fears, his 
wrongs, and emptied the' overfldvdng bitter- 
ness of his heart in the language oT prayer. 

Had I acted on the impulse I felt while 
thinking thus, I too had knelt, for I too was 
unhappy. But to what should I kneel? — to 
an image, the work of men’s hands — or to 
the invisible, the ever present Creator ? Me- 
thought while the question passed in my mind, 
I heard that sound, when amid thunderings, 
and lightnings, and tempest, there was the 
voice of words, and the Almighty proclaimed, 
‘ Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven 
image, nor the likeness of any thing in heaven, 
or on the earth : thou shalt not worship nor 
bow down unto them.’ I looked around and 
the illusory ideas that the scene had at first 
awakened were gone, and 1 saw a poor soul- 
chained sinner pouring out his prayer to what 
was indeed ‘no god’ — to a thing that ‘could 
neither profit nor deliver’ — to the image of 
one who, if such a person ever had had ex- 
istence, had worn the same vestments of mor- 
tality, and had companionship with the same 
sins, and fears, and sorrows ; and should I 
. address my prayers and pour out the com- 
plainings of my soul to one who had only 
escaped a little before from the evils of time ? 
How admirably is the religion of Popery 
adapted to the feelings of the natural heart, 


IN PORTUGAL. 


17 


the lieart of fallen man, that in its eartbi- 
nS^^Mts estrangement from God, dislikes a 
spiritual service, and shrinks from a spiritual 
God ! it says, to one who can feel for 

your distresses, who is not exalted above the 
sympathies of mortality — and we are so prone 
to venerate, to love the memory of the good, 
the amiable, the lovely, who are gone before 
us, that w'e feel tempted to implore their in- 
tercessory office^ on high, and to ask their 
pitying guardianship over us, while we wander 
in this world of sin and care. 

But I was not betrayed into the delusion 
into which these milder features of Popery 
might lead many a feeling mind, and many 
an unconvinced heart ; I knew the doctrines 
of the Gospel — theoretically knew them, for 
my understanding was informed, though alas ! 
my heart was unchanged, unaffected by the 
truths I fancied, 1 believed j I knew that a 
Mediator was provided for us, who had taken 
our nature upon Him, that we might have an 
High Priest, who could be touched with a 
feeling of our infirmities. I knew that He 
had been made a man of sorrows, and a(?- 
quainted with griefs — that He had suffered, 
being tempted — that He had not only tasted, 
but drank to its dregs the bitter cup that falls 
to the lot of mortals here below, unmixed 
alone with tlie deadly potion that their own 
sin casts into it — and now, that his ear was 
open to the plaint of the sorrowful, the cry of 


18 


MY ADVENTURES 


the sinful ; that through Him alone, should 
prayer be made — and that it were as vain as 
it were sinful to proffer a request on high that 
did not ascend through the ‘ o^ie ’Mediator 
between God and man, the Man Ofirist Jesus.’ 
I knew all this ; yet, though under the im- 
posing effect of the scene, the hour, the stilly 
gloom, I had felt a desire to join in that poor 
penitent’s devotion, I felt none to bend my 
knee — or lift up the heart to that Eternal 
God, who, even from a temple like this, sur- 
rounded as it was, with the violations of His 
holy law, and the evidences that man is na- 
turally prone to forget that ‘ God is a Spirit, 
and must be worshipped in spirit and in truth,’ 
can hearken to the silent breathings of the 
heart, that seeks Him in His own appointed 
way. The dark unbelief of my soul forbade 
me to do so, and the enthusiasm of the mo- 
ment over, 1 glanced coldly round the painted 
walls, the gilded shrines, and decorated altars; 
and recollecting with a sigh, another land 
where Popery was not so exalted, I left the 
church. But the thoughts that had been ex- 
cited could not be easily silenced ; I returned 
musingly to the camp, all was hushed and silent 
there : I threw myself on my bed, wished for 
the day, and hoped it would bring an order for 
march. That wished for order came at 
length, and we were soon afterwards on our 
way to meet the proud, ruthless invaders of 
the poor terrified people we had come to assist. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


19 


On the way we passed, all looked smilingly, 
all was peaceful and calm — all but man : 
beautiful prospects, sweet, fair scenes, quiet 
cottages lay around us ; and there were we, 
an armed and bannered host about to join in 
the shock of war, presenting a strange con- 
trast to scenes so lovely and so soft. 

How distinctly can I now picture to myself 
our array on the first night I bivouacked on 
foreign ground ; how plainly does memory 
present the forms that then lay scattered round 
me, indulging in repose on their cold earthen 
bed, after a fatiguing march ; the spreading 
cork tree, and the youth who sat with me 
beneath its shade, are now, methinks, before 
me : figures that have long since mingled 
with the dust of a foreign land, are prominent 
in fancy’s picture, and voices that are silenced 
forever, seem now to address me again. 

A small, beautiful valley was covered with 
our warlike host, and its stillness was broken 
by sounds most unseemly. 1 chose my lodg- 
ing ground beneath a fine tree at the foot, or 
rather on the declivity of one of the rugged 
eminences that hemmed in this peaceful little 
spot : it was one that a hermit might have 
chosen ; a small, gurgling stream flowed down 
the rock beside me, and fell softly into its 
narrow bed below. Here I spread rny cloak, 
and then looked round on the scene before me 5 
and such a scene, revealed as it was by the 
bright, but flickering fires that were just burst- 


20 


MY ADVENTURES 


ing out through the glen, would be no bad 
subject for the painter’s pencil ; the broken, 
unequal light, gleaming on the shining blades, 
and piled arms, the glen crowed with armed 
and tired men, their indistinct forms some- 
times rendered more discernible by the sud- 
den blaze of the fitful light that fell in fantas- 
tic reflections on the dark rocks, and over the 
brown hills — it was a scene both new and 
pleasing to me, and while I lay watching it in 
all its variations, that still varied almost mo- 
mentarily, as one fire sunk and another sprung 
up, casting new lights and shadows on the 
scenery, as the tired soldier stretched himself 
to repose on the ground after his meal, and 
one group of dust-covered men dispersed 
while another assembled, my own reflections 
gradually assumed as varied a complexion as 
the scene I was gazing on. 

I was at last in the seat of war, in daily 
expectation of meeting the enemy ; the life 
I had long looked forward to was commenced. 
Yet I was not happy : one excited and ani- 
mated and hopeful feeling, seemed to pervade 
my comrades’ breasts : and though when 
with them I appeared like them — when I 
was thus alone 1 often felt sad, restless, and 
dispirited. So it often happens, that the very 
thing for which we long, after which we pant, 
finds us on its arrival dissatisfied, dull, inca- 
pable of enjoying it as we expected. 

I looked over the diversified groups before 


IN PORTUGAL. 


21 


me, and it was impossible that the reflection, 
that soon their numbers would be thinned, 
should not arise. 1 did not ask, what indi- 
vidual of that congregated body should fall 
first, but 1 sighed, for I was not then inured 
to compaigning, as I recollected, that probably 
many of those men, many of those active, 
thinking beings would find one common grave, 
would sink like the grass before the scythe of 
the mower, undistinguished, unknown — and, 
except perchance by some fond heart at 
home, unmourned, unw^ept. And — for who 
will not at such a time bestow a thought upon 
himself — I too, methought, might be of the 
number ; many whose hopes, whose spirits 
were higher than mine then were, fell in the 
first shock of battle, and their hopes and de- 
sires and self-promised honours were untimely 
quenched in their life-blood. The chance of 
war is always acknowledged to be doubtful, 
and numbers who were gay and happy, daily 
expressed in the language of soldier-like in- 
difference the probability of their own death 
— why could not 1 feel as others seemed to 
feel ? 1 raised my eye to the clear vault 

above my head as the questionings of my 
dark mind was going on, and the action might 
have afforded an answer to the demand. I 
could not feel indifterent to my state after 
death. From my earliest youth I had been 
acquainted with the doctrines of the Gospel, 
and the Scriptural testimony of man’s state 
3 


22 


MY ADVENTURES 


and character with regard to his Maker ; I 
could not disbelieve revelation, and I could 
not silence conscience. 1 saw numbers it is 
true, many of them men whom 1 esteemed 
and liked, who did not deny the existence of 
a future state, and who acknowledged their 
accountability hereafter, living quite at ease 
in the prospect of being perhaps suddenly 
called to render up that account and enter on 
that everlasting state : and if the ground for 
that contentedness were asked, there was 
generally some vague expression of trust in 
the mercy of God, some hope that they were 
not worse than others, that they had done 
their duty as they could, and then again all 
would be summed up in that favourite ex- 
pression, ‘ God is merciful.’ But such vague 
and undefined hopes as these could never 
satisfy one who really felt an anxiety concern- 
ing his state during the countless, never end- 
ing ages of eternity. Let men say if they 
will that such reflections are not for the brave 
— there never has been, there never will be, 
the man so brave as to contemplate unmoved 
an eternity, of hopeless, helpless misery ; and 
those who pretend to do so, do not believe in 
its existence. T could not as I before said 
be equally careless, for I had learned from 
the sweet and lovely example of one whose 
liberated spirit was then among the blessed, 
that the value of the immortal soul was not to 
be weighed, against the varied blessings and 


IN PORTUGAL. 


23 


accumulated treasures of time. Revelation 
depicted man as a fallen creature, incapable 
of reinstating himself in the favour of his Ma- 
ker from which he had fallen, both by Adam’s 
transgression and his own daily, hourly trans- 
gression of the law delivered to him, and de- 
clared that to raise him from this fallen state, 
and to deliver him from the double curse 
under which he lay, God became manifest in 
the flesh. It was in the full belief of this 
stupendous truth that 1 had often been told by 
those who anxiously sought my good, lay the 
very essence of Christian hope. It was, I 
had been told, impossible to believe this fact 
and be uninfluenced by the f^ith that could 
apprehend its best results : what more was 
there for man to do ; his salvation was finished 
for him, he dare not attempt the smallest ef- 
fort to effect it for himself — yet the giving 
up of body and soul, of the powers of his 
mind, and the affections of his heart, were 
only his reasonable, his delightful service, for 
the law of love held his soul in stronger chains 
to the service of his God than that which 
proclaimed, ‘ this do, and thou shalt live.’ 

These truths I knew ; they had often been 
sounded in my ears, and sweetly and mildly 
pressed on my attention by those who now 
exulted in their realization : but still they had 
no effect on me, 1 perverted the doctrine of 
Scripture, I refused to obey its precepts : it 
is there on record, the divine command and 


24 


MY ADVENTURES 


the assured promise, ‘Ask, and ye shall re- 
ceive ; seek, and ye shall find but I would 
not ask, for I said the prayer of an unbeliever 
will not be heard : it is written again, ‘Resist 
the devil, and he will flee from you but I 
yielded to temptations, I obeyed my own evil 
inclinations, I indulged my sinful habits ; for 
I said, man has no power in himself to resist 
evil, he is destitute of all moral ability, till the 
Spirit of God change the heart and dwell in 
it, conquering the power of sin, inclining it to 
hate evil and love good, we cannot act nor 
live aright. Thus, too truly was that ‘ which 
is good made sin unto me,’ through the de- 
ceitful sinfulness of my own heart, and the 
devices of mankind’s great enemy. 

But oh ! in times like this, when I felt the 
uncertainty, the vanity of all below, how 
blessed and happy would the faith and hope 
of the Christian appear ! how gladly would I 
have exchanged places with the lowliest sen- 
tinel who paced before the watch-fire, round 
which his comrades slept, did I believe that 
that man possessed the strong, undying hope 
of a blissful immortality, that would enable 
him to meet death with that holy calmness, 
nay, that triumphant joy which I had witness- 
ed in some who, young, weak, and timid, had 
met it with complacency, and left a world 
where there stay was fondly courted by those 
to whom they were dear, with a smile of 
peace- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


25 


Yes, sn the stirring scenes of war I have 
felt all this, nor let it be thought unbefitting ; 
for it is, I am convinced, impossible for one 
who has ever read tlie word of God, and 
considered the character of Him who it re- 
veals, to think solemnly and quietly of death, 
and maintain unshaken composure, while he 
feels that conscience can afford no answer to 
the question, ‘ Wherewith shall I come before 
Godr 


CHAPTER IIL 


While the deep and awful impression 
which reflections like these leaves upon the 
mind still hung over me, a voice close to me 
inquired in a whispering tone, for I was silting 
in shade quite in the back-ground of the scene 
I had been contemplating — ‘Is this Traver- 
ston ?’ — ‘It as, Fitzmorris,’ I replied, recog- 
nizing the silver-toned voice of our Lieuten- 
ant-Colonel’s son, a youth who had recently 
been appointed to an ensigncy in the regiment. 

‘ Will you let me share your quarters? you 
Rre so comfortable, so out of the throng.’ — 
'‘ With all my heart, seat yourself here, I can 


26 


MY ADVENTURES 


only offer you half the shade of my friendly 
tree.’ 

‘Thanks, Traverston,’ he said, throwing 
himself carelessly on the ground beside me. 
— ‘ From one fellow soldier to another on a 
campaign, such an offer is as grateful as an 
invitation to partake the hospitalities of a home 
in dear happy England.’ 

‘ Or still dearer Scotland,’ I replied, smil- 
ing. — ‘But why do you think my quarters, 
as you call it, an enviable spot ?’ ‘ Because 

it is alone,’ said Fitzmorris, turning up his 
head, that rested on his hand as he lay stretch- 
ed on the ground, to me, with an expression 
and a smile that went straight to my heart, 
for they seemed so like those I had been used 
to love, and I sighed, I deeply sighed, as 1 
looked on his young, sweet countenance, for 
he was a lad who had not yet numbered sev- 
enteen years, and thought 1 there too traced 
a resemblance, that won my interest and en- 
gaged my affection. 

‘And are you a lover of loneliness?’ I 
asked, smiling at him, ‘you, whose life has 
passed in camps?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Fitzmorris, and I thought his 
beaming face was momentarily shaded, ‘ my 
life has passed in dissipating and fatiguing 
scenes ; yet it generally happens, that when 
we are denied what we like, we only like it 
the more : so perverse a being is man !’ 

‘ You are not then fond of your profession ?’ 


IN PORTUGAL. 


27 


* All, there is the question I often ask my- 
self : and strange to say, I never answered it 
satisfactorily yet. I wish there was no need of 
war — 1 wish the world were so christianized 
that men shoidd learn war no more : it is sad- 
dening, it is heart-rending, to see the miseries 
it occasions ; the vice, the immorality, the 
profaneness it encourages ; to see such num- 
bers passing into eternity, thoughtless, unpre- 
pared or desperate : and then to live always 
in such tumultuous scenes, such constant stirs, 
among such a congregated mass of men — • 
Oh ! when I think all this, when T feel all 
this, I am not fond of my profession — but 
when J think of fighting for my country, for 
our liberties, our religion, our homes, of 
steming the torrent that has swept half Europe 
over, spreading desolation and misery and 
ruin — when 1 think of repelling that ambitious 
tyrant’s power, and teaching him to feel the 
world was not made for him alone, then I 
love it, then I am fond, nay proud of my pro- 
fession, I can walk with pleasure in the ranks 
of war, and strive to look on its miseries as 
necessary evils.’ 

‘ And when you think of falling in its ser- 
vice ?’ 

‘ I feel quite willing to do so, if it is the 
will of God.’ 

I looked at him inquiringly as he uttered 
these w^ords ; they w^ere not said with the 
easy non chalance of the soldier, or the indif- 


28 


MY ADVENTURES 


ferenee of the unthinking — No, both the tone 
and look bespoke rather the firm re^rgnatiorr, 
thb unshaken confidence of the Christian who 
was at all times and in all places prepared to 
meet the enemy from which all mankind na- 
turally shrink — it was not the devotedness of 
the patriot alone, nor the youthful ardour of 
the zealous young soldier that spoke in themy 
neither was it the bot-headedness of one who 
aspiring only at some trifiing distinction, some 
small elevation above his companions, was 
willing to throw away his life, reckless of all 
that was to follow. 

1 thought of these few atvd trifling words, 
and of the look that accompanied them when 
Fitzmorris overcome by faiizue had sunk into 
a deep and tranquil sleep, and then rolling 
my cloak about me, with my head resting for 
a pillow on a little mound at the foot of the 
tree, 1 too forgot the thoughts of the present, 
the memory of the past, and tlie prospect of 
the future in a sleep as deep, as calm and 
refreshing as ever 1 had enjoyed on a downy 
bed, in a warm and comfortabre chamber. 

After our junction with the main army, w^e 
were encamped o^)posite to a small town oc- 
cupied by British troops, and on our left lay 
a strong division of the Spanish forces. Here 
we were joined by some officers who had been 
absent from our regiment through sickness or 
other causes : among these was the Captain 
of the company to which I belonged — a man 


IN PORTUGAL. 


29 


universally esteemed and liked by all his 
brother officers. Captain Courtenay was one 
of whom all men spoke well ; a fine figure, 
and a countenance which, without regularly 
handsome features, always served as a pass- 
port to the man who possessed it, were the 
least of Courtenay’s attractions ; he was a 
warm-hearted friend, a pleasing and sensible 
companion, an upright, prudent, and honour- 
able man. Though his disposition was per- 
haps rather of the serious than the gay, he 
could be as lively as any one ; but he hated 
levity, and disliked frivolity : although when 
on home service he mixed in all companies, 
and attended such places of fashionable resort 
as those he associated with frequented, he 
avoided dissipation in general, and was looked 
on both by his junior and senior officers as a 
pattern of morality, and a credit to his pro- 
fession. I speak warmly perhaps, yet I feel 
I do Courtenay scarcely justice ; I esteemed 
his character and valued his friendship ; and 
though now reviewing the former with better 
formed ideas, I see how very defective that 
character must be that is not formed, deter- 
mined, and regulated by the pervading influ- 
ence of religion ; yet I thought then, and 
continue to think still, that for a man who 
lived only after the course of this world, 
Courtenay was altogether one most deserving 
of esteem, regard, and affection. 

It was while quartered in a country town 
4 


30 


MY ADVENTURES 


in our own native land, that I first became 
intimately acquainted with him ; and this 
town was rendered memorable to him by an- 
other acquaintance he made while in it, the 
issue of which, I am sure, he never dreamed 
of. 

Louisa B (I must be excused giving 

names in full) was the daughter of a man of 
rank and fortune ; she w'as married, before 
she was nineteen, to one who was rich indeed, 
but who possessed no other recommendation, 
and left a young and interesting looking widow 
at one-and-twenty. The splendid mansion 
in which she resided, w^as situated not far 
from our quarters, and the senior officers 
gradually got introduced at it. 1 often heard 
the young widow spoken of, and was two or 
three times, although only a subaltern, fa- 
voured with an invitation to her house. She 
was beset with every thing calculated to draw 
away the mind and turn the head of a young 
woman ; and I expected, and knew Courte- 
nay did also, to find her as vain, as conceited, 
and inflated with an idea of her own conse- 
quence, as some persons similarly situated 
would be ; but I thought, if 1 had not known 
who she was, 1 should merely have noticed 
her as a mild, and very interesting looking 
girl ; she appeared younger than she really 
was ; without being handsome, she was very 
engaging, and her manner was as diffident and 
unassuming as that of any girl in a subordinate 


IN PORTUGAL. 


31 


sphere of life. She seemed to me rather to 
be fatigued and annoyed by the general at- 
tention and universal admiration that she re- 
ceived. I often observed her, at places 
where we met, turn away with a look of in- 
difference or of impatience from such things, 
and enter into conversation with the most 
retiring, the gravest, or oldest persons in 
company. 

Courtenay was a man of reflection and 
feeling ; he could not make himself the as- 
siduous, flattering courtier, nor add his mite 
to the incense he saw offered up to a woman, 
who was admired, merely because she was 
rich. Whenever I saw him in her company, 
he was aloof from the crowd that usually 
surrounded her. One evening, however, 
they chanced to be seated near each other, 
and through the medium of a third person, 
engaged in conversation ; he spoke in his 
usual polite, engaging, but manly and sensible 
style ; he talked to her as to any other wo- 
man ; or if he differed at all, it was in being 
more careful to avoid the slightest appearance 
of that complimentary strain in which she was 
always addressed. F rom this evening, Louisa 
often appeared to favour Courtenay with her 
attention, and to be pleased when he address- 
ed her. He was often at her house, he met 
her at other places ; and at last his compan- 
ions began jestingly to congratulate him on 
the marks of favour he received. We, how- 


32 


MY ADVENTURES 


ever, got the rout, and Courtenay and Louisa 
took leave with not more seeming regret than 
is common on such occasions, and probably 
with little hopes of meeting again, for we were 
in expectation of being soon ordered abroad. 
From that time, his cheek ceased to redden 
when he was rallied by his brother officers 5 
nay, some said it actually grew pale, when 
he requested, in few but resolute words, that 
such raillery might cease. It did — for we 
saw it could not be continued without offend- 
ing him ; but, some lime after, we found 
there was moiie ground for it than we sup- 
posed. What, in the language of the world, 
is called chance, brought Courtenay to a place 
where Louisa was visiting, and an apparently 
accidental circumstance revealed to them their 
mutual attachment. Louisa was staying at a 
house where he was on an intimate footing ; 
here, while chatting in a lively way with her 
friends, when he was present, she alluded to 
the circumstance, that a considerable part of 
her jointure passed away from her, if she 
married again, jestingly making it appear that 
her whole property depended on her remain- 
ing a widow. Immediately, the inequality 
that had appeared to subsist between them, 
seemed to vanish from Courtenay’s view ; a 
hasty expression that broke from him, told 
what was passing in his mind ; he was only 
a soldier of fortune ; he could not think of a 
woman whos^j situation in life was so above 


IN PORTUGAL. 


33 


his own ; but did she share his attachment, 
and were she capable of giving such a proof 
of it, their circumstances might be equalized : 
the trial was soon made ; and it was not till 
Louisa had consented to unite her lot with 
his, that he found he was to marry a woman 
of large property, as well as one whom he 
would have preferred to all others, had she 
been pennyless. 

Louisa, though she had been a married 
woman, had never felt before the force of a 
strong and sincere attachment — for the man 
she had been married to by her father’s wish, 
was unworthy of her — and she was soon 
called on to give large proofs of its fidelity. 
She was united to all the vicissitudes, the 
uncomfortableness of a soldier’s life, without 
being able to share in what made it dear and 
glorious to him. She was a timid, affection- 
ate creature, deeply anxious for the safety of 
her husband, and never seeming entirely at 
ease, entirely in security, but when she was 
sitting by his side, or leaning on his arm. 
The idea of his being ordered on foreign ser- 
vice, haunted her imagination from the hour 
of her marriage : the order came ; Courtenay 
would not resign, nor would she ask him to 
do it ; so she resolved to share with him its 
perils and its fatigues, to watch over his safety, 
and when she could not save, to suffer with him. 
Not to be debarred by obstacles that seemed 
trivial, when they would separate her from her 


34 


MY ADVENTURES 


husband, she had followed him here : and 
here, in their society, with Colonel Fitzmor- 
ris, who was Courtenay’s uncle, and young 
Fitzmorris, to whom 1 had become warmly 
attached, I spent many a pleasing evening, 
while waiting for the movements of the enemy 
to decide ours. 

Nor in these rambling retrospective glances, 
is th^ apartment overlooked, in which the 
party^JLhave mentioned had collected to re- 
fres fal^ o urselves with something resembling the 
quiet' of domestic life, and with the sweet 
sounds of Louies voice, as she sang for us 
some soft air of our native land, accompanied 
by the gentle notes of the Spanish guitar j 
while the balmy odour from the orangery, 
into which the room opened, assisted in grat- 
ifying the senses, as the charm of rational and f 
intellectual conversation did the mind. Yes, 

I then felt at rest — then I felt almost happy. 

In every state of society, one may meet 
some interesting characters ; and did I not 
fear to incur censure, as indulging the par- 
tiality of an old soldier, I should say the army 
furnishes not the fewest. In my retrospec- 
tions of the past two instances of this stand 
prominent ; these are Colonel Fitzmorris and 
his son. Fitzmorris had seen much service, 
travelled through many countries, known 
many changes, and felt many sorrows. He 
was scarcely turned of fifty ; yet his once 
black hair was become quite grey, Iji^ eye 


IN PORTUGAL. 


85 

.V''' 

had lost its fire, his tall figure, though still 
erect and martial looking, was become thin 
and wasted, his speech was serious, and his 
aspect grave ; he was one who in general 
attracted respect rather than love ; and it 
seemed that, even from a bosom friend, he 
must gain the coldness of regard, instead of 
the warmth of affection. 1 had, however, 
opportunities of knowing that he could not 
only win, but retain the affections of those he 
himself loved. To those who did not wish 
to know him as he really was, he might seem 
such as I have described ; but Courtenay, 
who had known him long, was warmly at- 
tached to him ; Louisa loved him as a father; 
and the devoted attachment of his ardent, 
affectionate son, exceeded all the instances of 
filial fondness I have ever met, and rendered 
father and son doubly interes'ting. And well 
might Charles Fitzmorris love his only sur- 
viving parent, for never father more exclu- 
sively lavished on a child the fondness of a 
parental heart. 

Colonel Fitzmorris was one of those un- 
connected beings, who had hardly ever known 
the ties of kindred and relationship : separ- 
ated from childhood from his only sister, who 
died soon after Courtenay was born, and 
having lost both his parents at a very early 
age, he had scarcely ever known a relative, 
till his nephew joined the regiment. But 
before that period, he had one who made up 


36 


MY ADVENTURES 


to him in tender, devoted affection, the love 
of kindred : he had been attached to liis wife 
for many a long year before circumstances 
permitted their marriage ; but, once united, 
they separated no more till death divided 
them. Mrs. Fitzmorris followed her husband 
to distant lands ; she endured with him hard- 
ships, and sorrows, and privations, and dan- 
gers : in his joyous hours, she was his joy ; 
in grief, his consolation ; in perplexity, his 
counsellor — the anchorage of his soul in de- 
spondency. How hapless is the man who 
makes flesh his arm! she died — his all of 
hope and of joy perished, for mortality was 
written on the things in which he trusted, 
which he foolishly thought were to be his 
forever! — He lived — but he lived broken- 
hearted ; his lip forgot to smile, his cheek 
ceased to glow, his eye to beam ; life lost its 
charms, glory became an empty sound, hon- 
our a bubble, that burst ere it was fully blown } 
renown, a mere mockery on human wretch- 
edness. Thus he lived, and thus he would 
have died, a desponding, life-disgusting being : 
but one tie yet remained ; one tendril of the 
vine that had clung about him, and screened 
his desolatedness from himself, and been his 
shade and his defence, still was fresh, though 
the parent stem was withered ; — his boy, the 
image of his beloved one, still remained ; and 
when the wound was seared over (for it was 
never healed) he felt that life had not lost all 


IN PORTUGAL. 


37 


its value, while he could live for his child. 
They were never parted, — he was his play- 
fellow, his teacher, his companion, his friend ; 
and the boy, at once so ardent and so gentle, 
with feelings so glowing, affections so warm, 
and tenderness so exquisite, fully returned 
the love so largely bestowed on him, and fa- 
ther and son became mutually the objects of 
idolatry to each other. 

But still the remembrance of days that had 
been, would not fade from the widowed man’s 
memory ; even the fondness and love of his 
little boy would recal them ; and Fitzmorris 
would often catch him to his breast, and bend 
his head over his fair young face, to hide the 
tears that came darkling to his eye. 

Like his poor mother, Charles attended his 
father wherever the service of his country led 
him. Fitzmorris would often feel for him, 
and dread the influence of different climates 
on a boy as soft and delicate looking, as if, 
instead of the rude and stirring life he led, 
he had been nurtured in the Jap of ease, and 
brought up amidst all the softnesses and in- 
dulgences of home. But Charles was the 
only object now for which he lived ; it was 
his presence, his innocent coeversation, his 
artless affection, that saved him from the de- 
spondency into which he felt he would other- 
wise sink, it was a thought on him that saved 
him from throwing away his life in the hour 
of danger ; and were they parted, his boy 


38 


MY ADVENTURES 


would soon be fatherless. Charles therefore 
went with him wherever he went, saw what- 
ever he saw, lived wherever he lived ; like 
the sweet accacia flowering in the sandy des- 
ert, he was the only thing that seemed to live 
and bloom for the solitary man, who, though 
amidst a multitude, was still alone. But there 
was one drawback, even to the satisfaction 
with which he rested beneath the shadow of 
this fair, refreshing plant. He had learned 
that the fairest things are often the frailest ; 
that the sweetest gourds that bless us here 
below, come up in a night, and perish in a 
night — and the dread of seeing the last thing 
that blessed and cheered his loneliness, wither 
like the flower, before it was grown up, took 
peace from his heart, and robbed his mind of ^ 
rest. Oh ! how does misery cling about the | 
things of earth! — how well does Scripture 
compare our fond, foolish trust in aught that 
is of mortal birth, to dependence on a broken 
spear, that fails beneath the arm, and pierces 
the hand that leans upon it ! even the secret, 
unbreathed apprehension of losing the objects 
of our idolatry, makes us uneasy in their pos- 
session. Yes, blessed and happy are they, 
who, in a dying, changing, soul-wearying 
world, have their affections surely set there, 
where true joys are only to be found ; who 
use the things of this world as not abusing 
them, and keep their hearts, while rejoicing 
that ‘ the Lord gave,’ in readiness, if need 


IN PORTUGAL. 39 

be, to say, ‘ the Lord hath taken away, bless- 
ed be the name of the Lord !’ 

This was a frame, of which Fitzmorris 
knew nothing ; it is one, truly, that many a 
Christian has to pass through the ordeal of 
fiery tribulation to acquire. Although strict 
almost to severity in morals, he was utterly 
destitute of religion : he probably hardly ever 
thought of a future world, or if he did, he 
was content to live as he thought right in this, 
and leave the rest to Him, who only could 
determine it. If his'opinion as to his own 
state after death had been asked, he would 
not, most probably, have pleaded in hacknied 
language the mercy of his Maker, his own 
attempts at rectitude in general, or any other 
equally fallacious ground of hope ; he would 
have altogether waived the subject, as one 
not suited to the concerns of this life, one that 
mortals could not unravel, and one therefore 
which they had no business witl^ on which 
inquiries were fruitless, for they could only 
be answered by an entrance on that state, 
concerning which they were made. Never- 
theless, this dark' man, so cold, so indifferent 
to sacred things, was an object of the ever- 
lasting love of God, and was not to be a cast- 
away ; in the dark hour of worldly sorrow, 
he was to hear the voice of heavenly com- 
passion ; and while intently musing over his 
own mortal griefs, he was to be awakened to 
a view of the vast, the soul-subduing love of 


MT ADVENTURES 


40 

God, manifested towards him, ungrateful, cal- 
lous, rebellious as he was. It was in Ijidia 
that one of those men of God, who have left 
home, and families, and friends, to speed on 
a mission of love, to bear the tidings of salva- 
tion through Jesus Christ, to the nations of 
the Gentiles, was commissioned to convey to 
a weary and heavy-laden son of earth, the 
invitation to come unto him, who bindeth up 
the broken in heart. 

A new subject was offered to his contem- 
plation, the love of God in Christ ; and Fitz- 
morris paused to consider it — amazing sub- 
ject ! — surely, were its details sounded over 
this sin-polluted and sorrow-covered earth, 
and believed in all their great, soul-captivating 
results, its mourners would cease out of the 
land, its deserts would^ rejoice, the tongue of 
the dumb would sing, 

‘The weary find eternal rest, 

And an the sons of want be blest.’ 

It began to break on Fitzmorris ; and as it 
opened m.ore and more on his astonished 
view, the film fell from his eyes ; like the 
blind man touched by the finger of the Mes- 
siah, he began to perceive just light enough 
to tell him he had all his life been in strange 
darkness. But not to the pool of Siloam, 
was he sent to wash, to obtain the clearer 
vision that he wanted ; to the fountain opened 
in Zion for sin, he was directed ; and there 


IN PORTUGAL. 


41 


he gained his spiritual light, and there he ob- 
tained a full view of that 

‘ Boundless love of God, whose height, 

Whose depth unsearchable, no man knows.’ 

What else was wanting to subdue the sinner’s 
soul, to conquer the obdurate, impenitent 
heart, than to be convinced that he was the 
object of that love, which was manifested on 
Calvary, where Jesus died ? Oh ! when the 
natural infidelity of the human heart is con- 
quered by His Spirit, where faith to accredit 
that wondrous fact is given, the sinner is in- 
deed ‘ born again old things have passed 
away, all things are become new, an entire 
regeneration has taken place ; like one called 
into another state of being, he thinks, he 
speaks, he feels, he acts anew : the things of 
time appear different, and the things of eter- 
nity appear different : the first was predomi- 
nant, now it sinks to nothing ; the latter was 
unthought of, now it is every thing. Earthly 
cares, earthly trials, weighed darkly on his 
spirit — they may weigh there still ; but the 
spirit rests not contentedly beneath them ; it 
pants to heave them off, to rise above them, 
to get free from them, — the unbeliever knew 
not whither to go with his burden, and so he 
lay down despairingly beneath it : the be- 
liever cast all his care on one that careth for 
him, and looks above his own weakness, and 
out of his own sinfulness, and from his own 


42 


MY ADVENTURES 


sorrows, to One who is strength and righte- 
ousness, and the ‘ God of all comfort.’ 

So it was with Fitzmorris ; his irritated 
feelings were softened, his pride subdued, his 
hopes revived ; all things had become new 5 
the current of his thoughts ran in another 
channel ; the affections of his heart found an 
undying object, his often disappointed hopes, 
a sure resting-place ; and though the recol- 
lection of his past life would arise again, and 
though trials and griefs still encompassed his 
path ; he learned while feeling, oftentimes 
painfully feeling, that through life he had here 
‘ no continuing city,’ to look up and say with 
calm confidence, with hope and joy, ‘ but I 
seek one to come.’ 

As a Christian too, Fitzmorris found he 
dare not allow to any one earthly object, 
however cherished, the monopolization of his 
affections; mankind, to whom be had gener- 
ally seemed an unfriendly cynic, claimed his 
pitying regard ; and instead of cold and sullen 
scorn, or unbending apathy, he was called on 
to evince some small portion of the forbear- 
ance, the love, the pity, that had been shown 
to him. 

To train up his son in the fear and love of 
God, to teach him to live for eternity, to lead 
him to the Saviour, to pray that he might be 
made one of those ‘ lambs’ of his fold, which, 
in the prophetic announcement of his office 
and Messiahship, it was declared he should 


IN PORTUGAL. 


43 


* carry in his bosom,’ now became the object, 
end, and aim of all poor Fitzmorris’s anxiety. 
He acted in conformity to the commands of 
Scripture, he was therefore entitled to look 
for the accomplishment of its promises ; he 
trained up his son in the way that he thought 
it directed man to go, and he depended, that 
in after life he would not be allowed ‘ to de- 
part from it.’ And though outward things 
were most against such a hope, though his 
profession might seem to unfit him for the 
office of preceptor to a boy like this, and the 
atmosphere of a camp, or the season of a 
campaign, be most unfriendly to the work he 
had in view, he went on with it in the exer- 
cise of faith, trusting, that ‘ through the mercy 
of the Most High, he should not miscarry :’ 
he watched incessantly over his son ; he 
screened him from the contagion that was 
about him, as far as he could, and when he 
must be exposed to it, he endeavoured to store 
him with preventives against its effects; he 
watched the first symptoms of the infection 
he dreaded, and delayed not to apply the 
remedies. 

By his father’s care, Charles Fitzmorris 
was saved from the open dangers that lay 
around him ; by the grace of God, early be- 
stowed on the child of a pious parent, he was 
saved from those secret ones which ‘ come 
from within,’ which entering in the heart of 
man, unrestrained and uncorrected by that 


44 


MY ADVENTURES 


grace, issue from thence into the open com- 
mission of sin, or lurking there, in their secret 
malignity, make the sinner to live in the daily 
and hourly violation of his Maker’s command- 
ments, while, through the ‘ deceitfulness of 
sin,’ he is rendered insensible of the trans- 
gression that was not openly committed. 

Early given up to his God, this engaging 
youth seemed like some holy being that had 
been nurtured in a purer sphere, and sent 
among us to show us the loveliness of true 
religion and virtue, of purity and goodness : 
to believe, that such a boy, so amiable and 
pious, so innocent, so tender and warm in his 
feelings, so pure in his affections — so simple, 
modest, and engaging — had been reared in 
camps, and lived only among soldiers, was 
almost impossible. 

Fitzmorris left to his son the choice of a 
profession, and Charles chose to remain with 
him and follow his. Like the young Moabi- 
tess to her mother-in-law, this affectionate 
boy’s language to his father was, ‘ entreat me 
not to leave thee, or to return from following 
after thee ; for where thou goest I will go, 
and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy 
people shall be my people, and thy God my 
God.’ 

Nor was the latter declaration the mere 
language of enthusiasm, for Charles had in- 
deed chosen his father’s God for his, and was 
united with him in the bonds of a living faith. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


45 


He knew no other life than a military one, 
and to tread in the steps his father had trod, 
was his greatest earthly ambition. Nor was 
Filzmorris dissatisfied with his decision, for 
though it exposed him to danger, he delighted 
to keep him under his own eye, and still to 
enjoy his beloved society. ‘ Is there not,’ he 
would say to himself, when he reasoned with 
his fears, ‘ is there not an appointed time to 
man upon earth ; my God will leave him to 
me as long as it seemeth to him good but 
then he would inwardly murmur, ‘ O ! that it 
may be his pleasure to take me first — never- 
theless’ — and a deep, heart-rending sigh 
would follow — ‘thy will, not mine, be done !’ 

I remember having heard my own poor 
father say, that it w^as one of the most inter- 
esting moments of his life, when he saw my 
eldest brother ascend the steps of his own 
pulpit to preach his first sermon in the place 
he had himself been preaching in so long. I 
am sure, it is to the pious minister a moment 
of soul-engrossing interest : but was it a far 
less interesting one to the soldier, who had 
served so long and so well, to see his stripling 
boy, over whose fair head sixteen years had 
barely past, buckling for the first time his 
sw’ord to his side, and preparing to follow in 
the course which, it might be, he himself had 
nearly ended, to encounter the same difficul- 
ties, and face the same dangers which might, 
perhaps, meet a speedier termination. 

5 


46 Mt ADVENTURES 

Yes, there is a difference of feeling, and if 
an equal interest be felt by both fathers, it 
must be of as different a nature as the sight 
that creates it. The man of peace sees his 
son about to appear as an ambassador of 
Christ to serve in the sanctuary in which he 
has served, and declare th6 same truths which 
he has declared, and for which they shall give 
their account at that day, when the souls they 
win to Christ shall be their joy and crown of 
rejoicing in the Lord, or those they neglect 
or assist in deceiving, shall add to their con- 
demnation : he sees him about to publish 
peace, to call on men to be reconciled to their 
God — and when he thinks how he has plead- 
ed with his God for him — how he has longed 
to see him receive himself those doctrines 
which he is about to teach unto others — the 
tear of gratitude is in his eye — that a father’s 
hopes are fulfilled, and a father’s prayers are 
heard. 

But the man of war sees his son gird on 
his sword, in sad evidence that the kingdom 
of the Prince of peace is not yet come ; that 
nation riseth up against nation, and men learn 
war from their youth ; he seems not the her- 
ald of peace, but the stirer up of strife, not 
the proclaimer of mercy, but the promoter of 
wrath. Yet to a father, and that father a 
soldier from his boyhood, interesting and full 
of feeling must the moment be, when first he 
sees the object of his hopes, his love, his 


IN PORTUGAL. 


47 


fears, arrayed in the panoply in which he has 
grown grey, and preparing to set out in the 
same profession in which he has served, and 
in the same service in which he has fought 
and bled, and toiled and gloried. 

In Louisa’s apartments, the evening circle 
was generally a domestic one ; and it was 
curious, in the small group that usually as- 
sembled there, to witness the variety of char- 
acter and feeling developed in their several 
remarks on the. interesting topics of the day. 
At such times Charles would express the 
glowing anticipations of the sanguine boy ; 
Courtenay the conjectures of the reflecting, 
brave, and sensible man ; Fitzmorris the de- 
liberate opinion of the old,, experienced sol- 
dier. Here, or sauntering along some of the 
fine uplands that bordered our encampment, 
I enjoyed more peaceful hours than I could 
have anticipated on first embarking for the 
theatre of war ; we sometimes spoke as poli- 
ticians, sometimes as soldiers, sometimes — 
let not the politician nor the soldier smile — 
sometimes as Christians. How well does 
memory picture afresh this place to my view, 
as if it were only yesterday that I had seen 
it! — the sloping bank on which I have re- 
clined — the vine-clad cottage beneath — the 
camp with all its array, its sounds and its 
throng, spread out beyond it — the smoke 
from the town curling up above the tents, and, 
far off, the fine spread view, bonuded by tha 


48 


MY ADVENTURES 


lofty mountains whose tops were encircled by 
clouds. Here, with Courtenay, I could talk 
of the past, with the ardent Charles of the 
future. 


CHAPTER IV. 

One morning we ascended an eminence in 
the neighbourhood ; a quantity of rain had 
fallen in the night, (and a night of rain in an 
open camp is not very agreeable) : we rose 
early, in hopes that a walk under a newly- 
risen sun would refresh us more than an un- 
comfortable sleep in a cold, wet tent. The 
ground was wet, the mists and fogs were not 
yet dispersed ; but over the tops of the hills 
the sun was brightly shining, and towards 
them we directed our steps ; but when we 
stood on the spot that had seemed so inviting, 
we looked down and saw great masses of 
cloud and mist moving beneath us, and shut- 
ting out the view we had expected. An ar- 
dent lover of nature, both in her softest and 
sublimest dress, Charles complained most 
bitterly of disappointment ; a hand was laid 
upon his shoulder while he spoke, and turning 


IN PORTUGAL. 49 

quickly round, be saw his father, who, with 
Courtenay, had followed us unperceived. 

‘ Look around, and above and beneath you, 
my boy’ — said Fitzmorris, ‘ and tell me, does 
no thought strike you ?’ 

Charles did as he was desired, and looked 
up to him again : ‘ None, except that every 
thing is very dreary and dull looking.’ 

My eye had followed his, and 1 said, smil- 
ing, ‘ do you wish to make your son a mor- 
alizer. Colonel ?’ 

‘ Neither old soldiers nor young soldiers 
are good moralizers,’ he answered, ‘ but the 
similitude struck my own mind very forcibly, 
and I am glad that you observed it too.’ 

‘ What do you mean?’ said Charles, impa- 
tiently, ‘ my imagination, which you say I 
ought to control, is not so active this gloomy 
morning as either yours or my friend Trav- 
erston’s.’ 

‘ I thought, on looking down on the murky 
plain below us, that the situation of those 
upon it might seem not unlike to that of men 
in general ; men as they are by nature, when 
they look up, clouds and darkness rest upon 
their sight — if they raise their eyes they see 
only a dark vapoury, shadowy scene, their 
hearts are chilled and cold, for the glorious 
prospect of heaven is hidden ; it is enveloped 
in the vapours that infidelity and sin have 
raised. But when the soul is set above these 
things, light shines around it, and above it ; 


50 


MY ADVENTURES 


the mists are dispersed, and the clouds that 
intercepted our view are found to have be- 
longed to earth, and not to heaven.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Charles, glancing about him-, 
and then turning his animated face to us, 
while his band pointed to the still brightening 
sky ; ‘ and when, from- such a Pisgah’s top^ 
we look on to the bright prospect before us, 
how gladly would we leave the mists that still 
linger around us, for the pure effulgence of 
light that is above us.’ 

Courtenay smiled at the enthusiastic ex- 
pression of his young cousin’s beaming face ; 
but to me it was interesting, it was lovely ; I 
looked upon it, and thought it surely bore the 
characters I had seen before — characters 
that seemed to speak of speedily obtaining a 
passport to a ‘ better country one that 
seemed more like their own native clime,, 
than this unholy earth. 

Courtenay looked thoughtful a moment,, 
and then said to his uncle, 

‘ Are not such sentiments. Sir, respecting 
our fellow creatures, rather uncharitable ? 
For my part, I would wish to consider every 
man as having as equal a chance of heaven 
as myself.’ 

A cloud passed over his uncle’s brow, as^ 
he repeated in a deep and solemn tone the 
word ‘ Chance !’ — ^^he compressed his lips, 
as he always did when his feelings sudered,^ 
and then murmured. 


IN PORTUGAL, 


51 


' Madness is in the hearts of men while they 
live, and after that they go to tlie dead.’ 

Courtenay reddened highly ; I knew that 
he would not have brooked such a speech 
from another, and felt unpleasant; but Charles 
turned hastily around, and his beseeching 
eyes spoke for him before he could whisper, 
^ Alick — dear Alick- — you know my father.’ 

‘ Yes, Alick,’ said Fitzmorris, who heard 
what his son did not intend him to hear — 
* you know 1 am no temporizer ; 1 speak to 
you as to an immortal, and a mortal being ; 
one who stands hour by hour on the very 
brink of an eternity, in which he is to exist 
■after this life : and I tell you, Alick, that if 
you have only a chance for that eternity, you 
are lost forever !’ 

This, to my apprehension, made the mat- 
ter worse : but Courtenay, who had usually 
h\s passions in control, was now restored to 
his customary equanimity ; he saw by his 
uncle’s tone and look, that he was not under 
the influence of passionate, unkind, or angry 
feeling when he spoke ; and so, as we turned 
to descend the hill, he said, with a good-hu- 
moured carelessness of voice and manner, 

‘ Well, uncle, you will allow me at least 
the grace of modesty ; I only venture to speak 
of a chance, where you speak of certainty.’ 

‘ The modesty of infidelity, and certainty 
of faith !’ 1 murmured to myself, but not too 
low for Charles to overhear me, for he was 


52 


MY ADYENTURES 


walking beside me. I believe it had puzzled 
both him and his father to make out exactly 
what sort of person I was ; that I had feelings 
in common with them on religious subjects, 
they believed ; but 1 disliked, and generally 
avoided, speaking on them j 1 seemed to feel 
the truth of the representations I often heard 
from them, yet they could not discover that 
my conduct was at all influenced by them. 
Now, at last, the sanguine boy thought he 
had a brother in the faith he held j with an 
exclamation of joy he put his arm within 
mine, and briefly expressed the satisfaction 
he felt. 

His words were daggers to me ; they made 
me feel what I never wished to feel ; and 
they placed me in that uneasy situation, which 
a man of candour must be in, when he 
knows he is looked upon as a very differ- 
ent character from what he really is, and that 
a few words from him would alter the favour- 
able opinion of another. 

‘ I know your father is right,’ I said, ‘ be- 
cause his sentiments, though perhaps more 
bluffly or plainly expressed, are those I have 
heard from the persons to whom my mind 
always recurs, as living exemplifications of 
what real genuine Christianity is.’ 

The animation of his countenance gradually 
subsided. 

* But is that all ?’ he inquired, with a look 
of disappointment and doubt — ‘ that surely is 


IN PORTtTGAlr. 


53 


nt)t your only reason, Traverston ; you do 
not rest your belief of the truth of these doc- 
trines, which are not merely the speculative 
opinions of men, and may be believed or re- 
jected as every man pleases, but are drawn 
from the revealed word of God, and concern 
so closely the interests of your soul — you do 
not surely rest your belief of such things on 
the loveliness of any character in which you 
may have seen them exemplified — you sure- 
ly examine their foundation — you compare 

them with the statements of Scripture ? ’ 

‘ Charles,’ I exclaimed, hastily interrupting 
him, ‘ I will not appear to you, or to any man, 
different from what I am. I do not hold 
Courtenay’s opinions, (if indeed that can be 
called an opinion which never cost one mo- 
ment’s serious thought,) because I have al- 
ways been in the habit of hearing very con- 
trary ones. I was brought up in a family 
where the doctrines of revelation were believ- 
ed, and frequently discussed, though I fear 
not sufficiently practised. I acquired naturally 
a sort of theoretical knowledge of them, and 
was for some time a practical Antinomian, or 
worse. Because I had been taught that hu- 
man nature was depraved, and man destitute 
naturally of the ability to do good, and to 
hate evil, I never thought of endeavouring to 
do the one or the other ; because men cannot 
hope by their own merits to obtain the favour 
of God, I thought any attempt at strictness of 
6 


54 


MY ADVENTURES 


life must be made through the legal desire of 
recommending ourselves to the Almighty. In 
short, to sum up the blackness of my creed 
at once, because man was a sinner, I thoughty 
or rather allowed myself to be persuaded by 
Satan, that he must remain the subject and 
the slave of sin, and that death alone would 
set him free from it, dismissing him, through 
the merits of the Saviour, to a world where 
it was known no more. Thus 1 went on, 
neither solicitous to regulate my moral con- 
duct nor to examine into the state of my own 
heart — that indeed loved ungodliness more 
than righteousness, and the ways of sin rather 
than the paths of holiness, yet whispered to 
me that because I rested my hope of eternal 
life on the ground that Jesus died, all was 
well; thus I went on till — ’ I paused here in 
my rapid hurrying sketch, for that suffocating 
sensation came over me that 1 always felt, 
nay, that I still in some degree feel, when 
dwelling on this part of my retrospections. 
Charles looked at me with deep interest ; and 
ashamed of the emotions that I thought he 
perceived, I went on, speaking very rapidly, 
— ‘till at my father’s house 1 met a friend, a 
relation of my own, who stripped the veil from 
my eyes and showed me what 1 was, and 
what I ought to be — but oh ! she could not 
make me so !’ [ stopped ; 1 was sorry I 

had said this, sorry that I had forgotten my 
usual reserve. 


IN PORTUGAL, 


55 


Charles’s eyes were still fastened on me, 
but when I looked at him they were slowly 
withdrawn with the air of one who is fearful 
of manifesting an unwarranted curiosity. 

‘In that state 1 still continue,’ 1 added. 
‘ I think 1 see the light of the Gospel, but I 
walk not in its heavenly influence ; I know 
what is right, but I practise what is wrong ; 
I understand the plan of human redemption, 
but I cannot like your father, like yourself, 
believe that I am individually included in it.’ 

A thrill seemed to run through iny young 
companion’s frame, and in a voice that seem- 
ed as if it reached even to his heart’s core, 
he exclaimed, ‘ Oh ! what a miserable man !’ 

But Charles was all gentleness and love ; 
the idea of giving pain to another gave pain 
to himself. 

‘ Pardon me, dear Traverston,’ he added, 
‘ I did not design to be unkind ; but such a 
state of mind appears to me so miserable, so 
awful ’ 

‘It is so !’ I emphatically rejoined. 

‘ But did your friend leave you in such a 
state — make no effort ’ 

I interrupted him by quickening my pace 
suddenly, and the words ‘yes — she left me’ 
broke from my compressed lips before I was 
aware. It was not until we turned down on 
the tent-covered plain, that that impetuous 
and hurried feeling, subsiding into the soft- 


66 


MY ADVENTURES 


ness of treasured regret,! murmured, thought- 
less of the time that had elapsed since the 
former words were spoken, ‘ that friend is in 
blessedness.’ 

Charles had been silent, for he saw my 
agitation, but now he gently said, ‘ Yet, Trav- 
erston one Friend never leaves us.’ 

I turned my head and looked at him. 

‘ Oh ! do not look so hopeless, so despond- 
ng,’ he exclaimed, pressing his hand upon 
my arm. ‘That is the way my dear father 
used to look at me when I was a little boy, 
and I thought his eyes pierced to my very 
heart !’ 

‘You have not often seen me look so, 
Charles,’ I said, averting my face from him. 

‘ No : in general you look as lively, as 
animated as any one.’ 

I smiled, I believe bitterly smiled, and 
repeated the word ‘ Look !’ 

Fitzmorris and Courtenay had walked on 
together to the town, in earnest conversation, 
and Charles came to breakfast with me in 
rny tent. From this time he became my 
friend, and, whenever duties and circum- 
stances would admit, my constant companion. 
To him I imparted many a thought that my 
own dark mind had brooded over in silence, 
because there were none among the crowd 
in which 1 lived whose feelings 1 believed to 
' be in unison with mine ; to him I spoke of 


IN PORTUGAL. 


57 


subjects that I would not expose to the pro- 
faneness of ridicule, or the indignity of con- 
tempt — and further still, to him 1 even 
named the names, sacred to my heart, and 
dear, that never had passed my lips from the 
hour when, in my soul’s first bitterness, I 
murmured them over the clay-cold corpses 
that had borne them. 

Dear Charles’s efforts were unceasingly 
directed to one great object — the removal 
of my dark and miserable stale as to religion. 
How distinctly do I remember circumstances 
in themselves perhaps trivial, but which were 
connected with the state of my feelings at 
this period. — Speaking to him one day on 
my own frame of mind, I let fall some ex- 
pressions that awoke all the pitying energy 
that was instantly in exercise when he saw 
any fellow being involved in error, soul-de- 
stroying error. ‘ Dear Traverston,’ he ex- 
claimed, ‘do you read the Bible 

Oh ! that question, how it pierced my 
conscience-smitten heart ! — and then, again, 
the resemblance that I had before remarked 
seemed so great — those hoyish features so 
lit by the same expression, those soft eyes 
so full of the same affectionate earnestness 
— methought if the appellation of Traverston, 
had been exchanged for the more familiar 
one of Henry, I might have fancied that I 
heard a voice, that was then singing the glad 


58 


MY ADVENTURES 


anthems of heaven, again address, again 
plead with a sinful, oh ! a deeply sinful mor- 
tal ! And then too, other scenes were fresh 
repainted, and my imaginative eye saw again 
a hand, on which the sickness of death was 
gathering, feebly extending to me the word 
of everlasting life ; and I heard again the 
prayer with which the voice closed its soft 
loved sound forever, — and I saw again that 

look But I forget myself — were I 

thus to open up the secrets of my heart, I 
might as well have continued my retrospec- 
tive tale at the burying-ground of my father’s 
church. 

But thpugh these images and these thoughts 
passed through my mind with painful rapidi- 
ty — for the mind will sometimes pursue its 
own sad chain of thought, while the lip gives 
answer for answer — it may be, smile for 
smile — still I replied to my young friend’s 
question : I told him that I had read the 
Bible but that 1 derived no benefit from do- 
ing so ; that I believed it was useless for 
those to whom the Almighty had not given 
of his Spirit, to do so. ‘ You know, Charles,’ 
1 added, ‘ that without the inspiration of the 
Holy Spirit, we read the Scriptures in vain, 
and as we cannot command its influences, 
and cannot read to any profit without them, 
to what purpose do we read at all ?’ 

‘ Oh ! Traverston, if ever Satan worked 


IN PORTUGAL, 


59 


lip a strong delusion, and turned the truth of 
God into a lie, he has done so in your case V 
the affectionate lad exclaimed. 

‘ Why, my friend, where is the use of tell- 
ing a man to pray, to read the Scriptures, to 
endeavour to serve his God, when he can do 
none of these things acceptably, unless he is 
first given the ability ?’ 

‘ What is the subject of our Lord’s preach- 
ing, Traverston ? — Repent— and of His 
Apostles’ preaching f every where that men 
should repent. We are invited to come 
unto Jesus, to turn unto the Lord- — He de- 
clares that those who call upon him, he will 
hear ; the invitations of the Gospel are free, 
universal, unlimited — but our hearts are 
alienated from God, our w’ills are perverted : 
we mil not come unto him that we may have 
life. So long as we make a merit or a busi- 
ness of reading the Scriptures, in the delusive 
hope of winning the favour of God, we are 
cleaving to the system of works — we derive 
no benefit and we reap ntf comfort ; as long 
as we offer up our prayers in the feeling that 
we are performing a good work, and recom- 
mending ourselves to the Lord, we are only 
casting ourselves further from him. Let us 
go to the Scriptures, as a wandering travel- 
ler to a map of an unknown land, feeling our 
ignorance, and anxiously desiring to be di- 
rected by the way we should go — let us 


60 


MY ADVENTURES 


kneel before Him, as a rebel to his sovereign-, 
and ask, not only for pardon through the 
blood of His cross, but for faith to believe 
that our pardon is sealed. Traverston, 1 am 
but an, inexperienced youth ; I have never 
mixed among professing Christians j I know 
not how they would speak to you ; but to 
you, or to any other sinner, 1 wou-ld say, 
seek the Lord — seek him in the way he has 
appointed, by searching his word and im- 
ploring the influence of his Spirit, and I 
would trust his gracious word, that he will 
not turn away the sinner’s prayer nor his 
mercy from him. You know corporal B — , 
Traverston ?’ 

‘ 1 do — what of him ?’ 

‘ My father knew him when he was a boy,, 
in Scotland : he ran away from the bouse of 
his father, who was a pious man, and joined 
our regiment ; he had taken little with him, 
ex.cept a Bible — -a strange companion for a 
man like him, you will say ^ but he bad a 
sort of superstitious belief, that as long as he 
carried about with him the book which his 
father had taught him to reverence, he was 
not a reprobate ; and very often, after a day 
spent in profaneness that manifested the 
complete dereliction of its sacred precepts, 
he would mechanically, as it were, open the 
Bible, perhaps foolishly imagining he made 
a sort of atonement for breaking the com.- 


IN PORTUGAL, 


61 


mands of God by continuing to peruse them. 
Where was the benefit that man derived from 
looking thus into the word of God ? — Oh ! 
it seems that he was awfully adding to his 
condemnation — yet, had any one whom he 
believed was a sincere Christian told him 
this, and said that he might as well cease 
from this customary observance, he would 
1 am sure, have done so, and thus put away 
from him that ‘ sword of the Spirit,’ by which 
this miserable sinner’s heart was yet to be 
pierced. One night he read, in his usual 
irreverent way, that lovely text, ‘ God so 
loved the world, that he gave his only begot- 
ten Son, that whosoever believeth in him 
should not perish, but have everlasting life 
and then the following awful one, ‘ he that 
believeth on the Son hath everlasting life ; 
and he that believeth not the Son of God, 
hath not life ; but the wrath of God abideth 
upon him.’ He closed the book, but the 
words did not leave his mind when it was 
laid by —-they recurred again and again ; he 
tried to get rid of them, by saying that they 
told of nothing new, that he had always known 
and always believed the facts they attested : 
this would not do — these words remained 
in his mind till they convinced him that he 
had never believed the truths of the Gospel, 
that he had only deceived himself in suppos- 
ing he believed such facts, when no practical 


62 


MY ADVENTURES 


effect was produced by that belief. Then 
the first prayer of faith ascended, for then 
he was first convinced of unbelief ; he felt 
then his sinfulness, and the first prayer that 
his new-born faith prompted was, ‘ Lord, 
help my unbelief!’ He has ever since con- 
tinued a truly pious and consistent character, 
showing indeed, in his every-day conduct, 
the effects of ‘ faith that workeih by love 
and thus the Bible, that was read as a task, 
or from the effects of early habits, and car- 
ried about with him as a sort of talisman, 
was made in the end effectual to his soul’s 
salvation.’ 

As he said these words, ( placed my hand 
instinctively on the breast of my regimental 
coat, felt there the talisman which 1 too car- 
ried, and breathed a silent prayer that it 
mi 2 ;ht be made effectual to the same end. 
But this feeling, like many another, died 
away before it prompted the energy of ac- 
tion, and my little talisman, a neatly-bound 
Polyglot Testament, was suffered to remain 
in the deposit where it was always kept with 
sacred reverence. 


IN PORTITGAL. 


63 


CHAPTER V. 

The following day I had been kept con- 
fined to the lines of our encampment by 
military duties ; but in the evening, wdien 
released, I walked over to the town, intend- 
ing to spend it more pleasantly with Courte- 
nay and Louisa. On entering her apartment, 
I found her sitting on a sofa, playing the gui- 
tar, which she was accompanying with her 
soft, sweet voice. Courtenay was thrown 
carelessly on the other end of it, with his 
figure inclined towards his wife, supporting 
himself on his elbow, while his fine counten- 
ance expressed the manly affection and the 
softened feelings that filled his breast. Col- 
^ onel Fitzrnorris sat by, looking at them both 
with affection, and perhaps pitying regard. — 
After-circumstances made me remember the 
picture of tiiat evening well, and still more 
forcibly impressed on my mind the truth of 
that motto that every man might adopt as his 
own, ‘ Firmura in vita nihil.’ 

Fitzrnorris and I were soon deeply engag- 
ed in discussing the state of public affairs, in 
conjecturing the movements of the French 
army, the designs of Soult, and of Reignier, 


.64 


MY ADVENTURES 


and Junot, and Ney, — names that once 
were wafted on the trumpet of fame and 
died away with its passing breath! — and 
the probable issue of the war we were now 
engaged in. 

Fitzmorris was an experienced officer, a 
man of deep reflection and sound under- 
standing ; his opinion was slowly formed and 
carefully considered, but, when once made 
up, was expressed with a degree of firmness 
and decision that sometimes made it appear 
almost dogmatical. The politician had been 
set at defiance by the revolutions that had 
convulsed and changed the face of Europe ; 
but where the speculation of the politician, 
the sagacity of the statesman, the conjectures 
of the soldier were set at nought, Fitzmorris 
looked on with the steady eye of a Christian. 

Though anarchy, injustice, ambition, and 
crime, covered and desolated the world, and 
it seemed wholly abandoned to the caprices, 
ambition, and tyranny of monarchs and men, 
still he knew there was a ruling power guid- 
ing, and governing, and forming the apparent 
chaos ; that the revolution of empires, the 
fall and rise of kingdoms, were not the work 
of chance, but the performance of the will of 
the Most High ; though he permitted the 
tempest to gather and rage in seemingly wild 
indiscriminating fury, He sat above it, and 
directed it where to blow, and stilled it when 


IN PORTUGAL. 


65 


its work was done. He believed that the 
man on whom the eyes of the world were 
fixed in astonishment and fear, whose wild 
ambition had raised him above his fellows, 
and rendered him pre-eminent in crime as in 
fame — that he was but an instrument in the 
great worker’s hands, that when he had done 
His work, who can make the worst passions 
of men subservient to his cause, and ordain 
the wrath of man to be his praise, he should 
be laid aside as a useless thing ; that when 
he had gone the lengths the Almighty per- 
mitted, the fiat should go forth, ‘ Thus far, 
and no further, shalt thou go ! — here shall 
the proud waves of thy glory be staid, and 
though they rage and toss themselves, they 
shall not prevail — for 1 have set them 
bounds that they shall not pass over.’ 

It was in this way we were conversing 
when, Louisa’s music having ceased, Court- 
enay called us to account for our inattention 
to it, laughingly saying, 

‘ I see, Traverston, you do not dread the 
influence of campaigning, as I do ; and my 
uncle, I suppose, thinks it can no longer have 
any upon him ; but as for me I am taking 
every precaution against it.’ 

‘ You are willing to allow to music all the 
softening powers that Shakespeare does, I 
suppose,’ I replied. 

‘ Louisa does all she can to undo what 


MY ADVENTURES 


m 

war has done,’ he said, smiling, ‘and to ob- 
viate if possible its hardening influence for 
the future ; and if the rock can he softened 
and the knotted oak bent, perhaps the rug- 
gedness of feeling which she dreads may be 
subdued.’ 

‘ And is it to the tinkling of a guitar and 
our own native song of ‘ Gramachree’ you 
would look for such a great result ?’ Louisa 
inquired, laughingly. ‘ But why,’ she added, 
‘always remind us of war and its horrors ? 
Surely we are here so shut in from such 
sights and sounds, (thanks to Spanish pre- 
caution, that turned our windows from the 
street, and fenced us in with walls and en- 
closures,) that we might make ourselves be- 
lieve we were safely seated in some barrack 
at home.’ 

‘Till the French come in and tell you 
otherwise,’ said Fitzmorris, with a smile. 

Now, if Alexander had said that, I could 
not have forgiven him ! But come, dear 
uncle, let us talk no more of the French, and 
of enemies and war, let us speak of home, 
and friends, and peace.’ 

As the words passed her lips, Charles 
flung open the door ; his appearance, and 
the heightened colour, that showed his walk 
from the camp had been a hasty one, made 
us each start from our seats. ‘ VVe march 
to-morrow,’ were his first words, — we look- 


IN PORTUGAL, 


67 


ed our eager expectation of further tidings 
— ‘ a courier has just come with news of the 
enemy’s advance.’ ‘ Alick !’ Fitzmorris ex- 
claimed, and started forward. Louisa had 
dropped upon the floor — Courtenay, almost 
as pale, hung over her — a sad announcement 
this of her fitness to be a soldier’s wife ! — 
thus to sink in the very beginning of sorrows! 
He raised her on the sofa and supported her 
with his arm — ‘ Louisa, my love, what is all 
this for .^’ — he looked away, for his voice 
was husky ; and though unused to contend 
witl) feminine weaknesses and feelings, he 
could not brook that silent, sorrow-stricken 
look from one lie loved — one who loved 
him so well. 

Fitzmorris looked through the high-barred 
window ; Charles stood self-condemned for 
having so unguardedly made his communi- 
cation ; and I — shall my own feelings be 
told again? — I felt almost glad^ that if I 
fell, the eyes that would have wept me most, 
could weep no more — the heart that would 
have broken when my own heart-strings 
failed, could feel no longer. 

When I called back my thoughts from the 
direction they were taking, I saw Charles 
bending over poor Louisa, whose hand he 
held in his, his pleading eyes fastened in 
intense anxiety and fondness on her pale 
face, while her husband, at her other side, 


68 


MY ADVENTURES 


alternately soothed and affectionately chided, 
and struggled with his own feelings, while he 
fondly reproved hers, and cleared his voice 
to exhort her to more indifference and greater 
firmness. She still looked like a figure sud- 
denly converted into stone, all her features 
were so motionless, and her face so colour- 
less, 

Courtenay looked towards his uncle, as if 
to demand assistance from one who had been 
longer accustomed to such things, and ex- 
claimed, ‘ What is to be done with her ? 
— would she had never left England !’ 

The words appeared to have an electric 
effect on Louisa : that frightful immovability 
of feature disappeared — her animation was 
restored — she turned towards her husband, 
and struggling at a smile, laid her hand on 
his arm. and said, in a broken voice, ‘Alex- 
ander, will not you excuse my weakness } — 
my first it is — it w’ill be the last.’ She ev- 
idently did not know what she was saying ; 
she stopped and trembled as the last word 
was uttered. 

Fitzmorris turned about ; I thought a tear 
stood in his firm eye. He went over to the 
sofa ; and, asking Charles to give him his 
place, took her hand between his, and spoke 
to her for some minutes in a low tone. Is 
that the man, thought 1, who is generally sup- 
posed to be cold, impenetrable ? He soft- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


69 


cned and soothed Louisa’s feelings, ^ though 
what he said I know not ; the tears fell fast 
from her eyes, but the appearance of colour 
returned, though slightly, to her cheek and 
lips. So well can one who himself has felt, 
know how to feel for others. 

Louisa gave him her hand when he rose, 
and only said, 'I thank you’ — and then we 
went away, and left Courtenay and her to- 
gether. 

‘ Oh !’ Charles exclaimed, as we left the 
house, ‘ how happy would it be for Louisa, 
if she could quietly leave poor Alick in the 
hands of his heavenly Father, who holdeth 
our souls in life, and can cover our heads in 
the day of battle — how miserable must site 
be without such a trust — how miserable 
must the knowledge of her wretchedness 
make poor Alick !’ 

His father turned pale ; he probably 
thought of one who had spared him, as far 
as an heroic concealment of her own feelings 
could, such misery — who had for his sake 
appeared to rise above her sex’s weakness, 
and saved him on many an awful day the 
wound that her tears would have given. 

At day-break next morning, the bugles 
and trumpets awoke me from the sleep into 
which 1 had not long fallen. I sprang from 
rny mattrass, and hastily dressing, was soon 
after in the line of march, and on my way to 
7 


70 


MY ADVENTURES 


intercept, as we thought, the progress of the 
French army. 

As the town from before which we had 
broken up was garrisoned, and out of the 
line that the enemy was pursuing, Courtenay 
had allowed his wife to remain there until 
he could send her further intelligence ; for 
though extremely desirous that she should 
return to England, she had so earnestly pe- 
titioned for this indulgence, that he could not 
deny it ; yet it left on his own mind a con- 
tinued weight of anxiety. When we reached 
the top of the hill from which we had our 
last view of the town, I turned to look and 
think for a moment of the poor disconsolate 
creature we left there, and image to myself 
her feelings when those martial sounds struck 
upon her ear, seeming to proclaim, perhaps, 
to her, the danger or the death of her hus- 
band. 

Our route lay through beautiful and ro- 
mantic scenery — alternately peaceful, and 
soft, and sublime, and magnificent. The 
destructive ravages of the French army were 
not visible here. The cottages were inhab- 
ited, and did not look as we afterwards saw 
them, when the scourge of war bad swept 
by them. The remembrance of the sweet 
orange gardens, the blushing vineyards, 
whose grapes we tasted on our sultry way, 
through the kindness of the peasants, the 


IN PORTUGAL. 


71 


lovely valleys, the majestic rivers and ro- 
mantic streams and the scenes of peace, and 
sometimes of careless merriment, we wit- 
nessed, as the cottagers sat in the evening 
before their doors smoking their cigars, with 
neighbours, or met in a merry group to dance 
to the sound of the sprightly caslinets, made 
us, when we passed this way again, and saw 
the wide-wasting desolation, the ruthless 
spoliation that had been flung around, feel 
still more indignant at their daring invaders 
and oppressive tyrants. 

The third day of our march we halted in 
a small plain. The surrounding ground was 
broken into deep, short ravines, between 
small ridges of hills and rocks, and this was 
bounded again by a loftier chain of hills, 
extending almost in a semi-circular form. 
Here our tents were soon pitched, and we sat 
down, tired and very hungry, to our dinners. 
The meal was hardly despatched, when a 
stafF-ofiicer, attended by a courier, galloped 
over the ground, and rode up to our general’s 
quarter. Such a sight is always one of great 
interest and much speculation in a camp ; a 
thousand conjectures and disjointed rumours 
are instantly afloat, and many a tale, though 
generally never a true one, is rapidly circu- 
lated, and eagerly listened to. 

It was soon known that he brought an or- 
der to our general to remain stationary until 


72 


MY ADVENTURES 


further directions, as large corps of the ene- 
my’s forces were known to be hovering in 
this direction. It was conjectured that he 
would soon come to an engagement, and an- 
other division of our army was on its march 
to co-operate with ours, if such was the case. 

In consequence of these tidings, disposi- 
tions were made for a more permanent can- 
tonment. Picquets were stationed on the 
heights, and reconnoitering parties ordered 
out ; and then began that state of eager and 
impatient expectation in which a soldier lives, 
while the enemy is daily expected to appear 
in sight. 

While we lay here, frequent information 
was brought to us of his advance ; but this 
information was suddenly changed : it was 
affirmed, that he had altered his route, and 
was marching in an opposite direction. Both 
officers and men seemed to share in a feeling 
of disappointment on these tidings, for a state 
of inaction in the very seat of war is not that 
most suited to a soldier’s mind. All the 
anxiety and excitement that had existed in 
the camp seemed suddenly to die away, and 
we all looked less important and less busy 
than we had done before. 

It was a night or two after this information, 
that 1 was ordered to take my turn on pic- 
quet. No subsequent events of a varied life 
have ever made me forget those of that night. 


IN PORTUGAL, 


73 


’w Tt was soft, but not brilliant, moonlight ; a 
haziness, almost inclining to fog, affected the 
atmosphere, and made every thing appear 
still more calm and quiet than it would oth- 
erwise. To him who loved the season for 
anxious thought, and a scene for calm re- 
flection, a night like this, on outline picquet, 
removed from the sounds, and the crowd?, 
an I the sight of a camp, might be almost in- 
valuable. To a feeling, a romantic, or a 
melancholy mind, such a night has its charms. 
I do not say which of these frames was mine, 
but every thing was so soft, so stilly, so silent 
about me, that T felt a calm and tranquil 
pleasure, and could have thought myself 
leagues from human society, although not far 
from a crowded and noisy camp. Here I 
felt there was a joy in solitude, at least in 
temporary solitude ; to retire for a lime from 
the eye and the voice of man, is sweet ! 
No eye, no voice, met mine — no sound fell 
on my ear but the measured footsteps of the 
sentinels, as they paced up and down, while 
one or another occasionally whistled in a low 
tone some note of a native air, that was prob- 
ably coupled in his own mind, poor fellow, 
with tender recollections, and just fell now 
and then upon my ear to rivet my thoughts 
still firmer on the memory of former times. 
Oh ! at such an hour, ‘when all is so lovely, 
so calm, so still, when the pale moon-beani 


74 


MY ADVENTURES 


glances on the dark rocks around you, and 
plays gently on the mountain stream beneath 
you, when the heaven with its glorious gar- 
niture is above you, and nature with all its 
wild and pensive loveliness around you, the 
mind cannot be hlled with the passing trifles 
that occupied it in the gaudy hour of day ; 
and often, tired with wandering among those 
with whom perhaps it has had no fellowship, 
it turns in at such a time upon itself to feed 
on memory for the sweets it yields. The 
thoughts that have flown from trifle to trifle, 
seldom stationary, and seldom occupied, are 
now called home, and meditate on subjects, 
that day, with all its bustles, and cares, and 
business, and society, with all its interposi- 
tions, and vexations, and temptations, leaves 
no room for. 

When we rise on a fine morning, and look 
out on a fair prospect, and a gloriously-risen 
sun, hope may smile upon us ; but at such 
an hour as this the moonlight gleam of mem- 
ory, cold, but sweet, is before us ; the eyes 
of the absent or the dead beam on us with 
their looks of love, their voices fall upon our 
ears — the scenes we have loved and left are 
before us. 

It was thus T mused or thought away the 
night — backward I often looked, forward 
almost never. My . hopes of this world’s 
happiness had ceased to be very sanguine, 


IN PORTUQAL. 


75 


and I did not possess that glorious hope, full 
of immortality, that gilds the futurity to which 
I looked. 

To hope (I mean earthly hope) they say 
all men are indebted. I believe it ; but 
were it not for her soft, pale sister, memory, 
I had been at such times, lonely and unhappy. 
She pictured to me scenes that had been, so 
vividly, that I lived in them again, and in my 
waking-dream forgot that I was a lonely sen- 
try on a Spanish hill, instead of being seated 
by the sides of those whom I loved in a 
British home. But deeper reflections would 
sometimes mingle in my retrospective survey, 
and then thoughts of the future would arise, 
and 1 would look. up darkly to the firmament, 
and pause to think of things of weighty and 
eternal interest. 

At day-break I was to have been relieved, 
but when the relief came it was indeed need- 
ed ; our comrades came up not to discharge 
us from a peaceful watch, but to stand by 
our side in the shock of an engagement. 

Some light companies of the enemy, who 
had gained upon us during the night, taking 
advantage of the ground where the ravines 
and hills covered their approach, silently 
attacked the advanced picquets. Our men, 
though surprised, nobly stood to the charge ; 
but, overwhelmed by superior numbers, after 
a few minutes’ stout resistance, they were on 


76 


MY ADVENTURES 


the point of bein^ driven in, when, the relief 
cqniing up, they rallied again ; the alarm 
was soon given, and corps after corps des- 
patched to our aid. Oh ! the hurry of that 
hour, when the love of life lost its influence, 
and the maddening irritation of the moment 
made a scanty band superior to that dread 
of death which we find natural in the time of 
calm reflection ! 

It was a murderous conflict. Our brave 
fellows at length wavered ; it was vain longer 
to cheer, longer to animate them — they fell 
back before the shout of • Vive 1’ Ernpereur,’ 
with which the enemy rushed in upon them. 
At that instant the inspiring cry of ‘ forward’ 
struck on their ear — a fresh band, panting 
and breathless, ascended the hills, and 
Courtenay at its head, impetuously urging 
its speed, dashed on like a lion to the prey, 
his gallant spirit burning to save or avenge 
his slaughtered countrymen ; 1 saw his sword 
gleam above his head : I saw, though my 
sight was fast growing dim, young Fitzmor- 
ris charge at his side, and gallantly plunge 
into the thick of the fight. The enemy did 
not long stand the impetuous charge, they 
gave back, and more forces coming up to 
help, they retired down the hill. I heard a 
poor w’ounded soldier, from the ground be- 
side me, exclaim, ‘ They run, they run !’ 
and I heard no more — my sword dropped 


IN 1»0RTUGAL» 


77 


from my hand, and I remember nothing fur- 
ther until [ awoke to recollection in my own 
tent, and saw Charles Fitzmorris sitting be- 
side me. 

‘Thank God!’ he exclaimed, when I 
looked at him, ‘ I thought you would never 
open your eyes again, Traverston ; but the 
surgeon says your wounds are slight, and 
that your insensibility was caused by exhaus* 
tion, and the quantity of blood you must have 
lost. Some of the men said they saw you 
receive a wound almost at the first onset — 
why did you not retire sooner?’ 

‘ Retire ! Charles, would you have had 
me retire when some brave fellows were 
fighting on the ground beside me ? Who, 
at such a time, could feel their wounds as 
long as they had strength to stand But' 
Courtenay 

‘ Oh I he is safe, unhurt— -a little scratch- 
ed, I believe, but quite well ; he is with the 
general now.’ 

‘Js the ffeneral satisfied .^’ 

O 

‘ Satisfied ! can you ask such a question ? 
The surprise was well conducted on the en- 
emy’s part, but it was well met on yours.’ 

‘The m.en did their duty well,’ 1 replied ; 
and overcome with fatigue and weakness, I 
fainted again. 

When I recovered, my tent was filled with 
officers, all testifying a friendly anxiety for 
8 


78 


MY ADVENTURES 


rue ; but the surgeon who had been called 
by Charles to attend me, declared that I 
only wanted rest, and to regain my strength 
a little, and ordered me to be left to repose ; 
they accordingly all withdrew, leaving only 
Charles, who seated himself by me, to be my 
attendant. Dear, affectionate youth ! bow 
invaluable to me has been your tenderness, 
your friendship, your sympathy ! 

I had not the mortification — for it would, 
J acknowledge, have been a mortification — 
to be laid upon a bed of pain and languor, 
while my companions in arms were engaged 
with the enemy. After the repulse of bis 
attack on our picquets, he retired behind the 
range of hills 1 mentioned before, and from 
thence watched our motions, and sent recon- 
noitering parties, which often approached 
very near to our line. Some small skir- 
mishes took place with these parties, but I 
was well and able to go into the field before 
any manifestations of an open engagement 
were observed. 

Courtenay, to the astonishment of all who 
saw him, had escaped almost unhurt ; Charles 
told me that while hurrying with him to our 
relief, he bad thought of Louisa, and prayed 
for his safety. ‘ 1 determined,* said the gal- 
lant boy, ‘ to keep as close to him as I could, 
and, if my life could preserve his, to save it.’ 

< Courtenay would not thank you for a life 


IN PORTUGAL. 79 

purchased at such a cost, Charles,’ I said, 
smiling. 

‘Ah! I do not know that — men may 
talk as they will ; but when the hurry of the 
fight is not going on, there is no one who 
has not a sure hope concerning their state in 
the world to come, who would not be well 
content to remain in this.’ 

‘And is there any man but the wretched, 
the wo-worn, who is sickened of life, that 
would not 

‘Yes; I think the believer, who knows 
that “ an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, 
and that fadeth not away,” is “ reserved in 
heaven,” for him, may feel an anxiety, a 
longing to enter on it, though here he be 
neither wretched nor wo-worn, nor sick of 
life. Many joys may surround him, but the 
joy set before him, the joy of his Lord, so 
exceedingly surpasses them all, that when 
by the eye of faith he contemplates the 
abundance of his Father’s house, he may 
feel it “ necessary to pray” for submission to 
the divine will, that still leaves him an exile 
and a sojourner in a strange land ; that re- 
lieves indeed his poverty, and sends him 
large evidences of his Father’s love, but de- 
lays still to call him home to enjoy the riches, 
and taste the joys reserved for him.’ 

‘ Charles, you seem to consider death as 
a more positive good than most people ; it is 


80 


MY ADVENTURES 
\ 

usual to speak of it as at best a negative one, 
an escape from the sorrows, the sufferings, 
and sins of life.’ 

‘ 1 know it is so ; and I believe that while 
the Christian tabernacles in clay, and his 
heaven-born, regenerated spirit, is pent up 
in a body of sin and death, and weighed 
down by mortal cares, anxieties, and crosses ; 
while he is subjected to the conflict between 
the “ flesh and Spirit,” beset by temptations, 
and exposed to sins, he must often turn with 
secret pleasure to the prospect of laying these 
things aside forever, of having done with life 
and all its evils. But this seems to me an 
unworthy feeling. What sort of opinion 
would we have of the soldier who was per- 
petually longing to have done with the service 
of his king, wishing each campaign to end, 
and thinking he had borne, and suffered, and 
served long enough ? I have never, you 
know, lived among, or conversed much with 
religious people. My dear father goes on 
in his straight-forward way, looking simply 
to his Saviour, and seldom enters into any 
discussion that does not concern the first 
fundamental* doctrines of salvation : there- 
fore, what I say to you, is not said so much 
as a matter of opinion as the expression of 
niy own feelings.’ 

‘ And therefore is infinitely more agreeable 
to me,’ 1 said. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


81 


Charles smiled : ‘ I was afraid you might 
think 1 was inclined to set forth my opinions, 
wishing you to adopt them.’ 

‘Not at all j so you may fearlessly pro- 
ceed.’ 

‘ Well ; let me tell you what I think of the 
feelings with which a believer looks forward 
to death. Suppose for a moment, that in- 
stead of belonging to the British service, we 
were an army of adversaries ; and instead of 
coming here to defend the poor Portuguese, 
or assist the oppressed Spaniards, we were 
merely seeking our fortunes by the sword. 
Now, in such a case, if our general led us 
up the summits of the Pyrennees, and showed 
us the lovely provinces of southern France, 
and told us they would be ours when our 
service was done, do you think we would 
look forward to the end of that service more 
as a relief from trials, or as the era that would 
put us in possession of all we could desire ? 
Just such is ray feeling when 1 think on 
death ; it is a thought of joyful anticipation, 
that could, I believe, make my heart glow 
in happiness, as well as be its consolation in 
trouble. When I read the promises of God 
to believers, and think of their full comple- 
tion, when faith shall be turned to sight. 
When I think of my suffering Saviour, and 
look forward to beholding him crowned with 
glory. Oh, then I am hardly content to linger 


82 


MY ADVENTURES 


here, though I believe my lot in life has fallen 
to me in as pleasant places as that of roost 
persons ; I mean that I am as free from trials, 
and cares, and vexations, as any human be- 
ing 1 suppose could be. Yes, Traverston, 
when 1 picture to myself the new heaven and 
new earth, wherein dvvelleth righteousness, 
perfect universal righteousness ; when I think 
of the full fruition of blessedness that believ- 
ers enjoy in the presence of their Lord, I 
feel that then my soul is “ looking forward, 
hastening unto the coming of the day of 
God.” ’ 

I thought of the awful description of that 
day, which is given in the verse he quoted, 
‘wherein the heavens being on fire shall be 
dissolved, and the elements shall melt with 
fervent heat.’ 2 Peter iii. 12. And that 
faith appeared strong indeed that could tri- 
umphantly look for, and joyfully haste unto 
such a day. 

We had been conversing in my tent, where 
I lay in the heat of the day, stretched on my 
mattrass, for I had not then recovered my 
strength, Charles was sitting on a camp-stool 
beside me, and neither of us observed that 
there was a listener to our conversation ; 
Courtenay had come in unperceived ; and 
though he only made a smiling remark on 
our noticing him, he did not appear to be al- 
together unimpressed with its seriousness. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


83 


* What an enthusiastic boy that is !’ he 
said, as Charles left the tent. 

‘ He is a heavenly-minded boy,’ I ex- 
claimed with warmth. 

‘ Oh ! he has always been a very saint ; 
and I think, Traverston, he has found a dis- 
ciple in you.’ 

‘ Would that he had !’ 

‘Why, surely you do not w’ant to be more 
religious than you are ?’ 

1 always disliked speaking on religion with 
persons who I thought would only lead me 
more astray, and so I replied, rather emphat- 
ically, ‘ Perhaps, Courtenay, neither you nor 
I know anything at all of real religion.’ 

‘ Perhaps not ;’ he answered, with unim- 
paired good-humour, and a look that seemed 
to say the doubt gave him little uneasiness. 
But a moment after he looked thoughtfully, 
and said, after a short silence, as if abruptly 
breaking off a chain of thought : ‘ Well, let 
us make our lives as correct as we can, and 
then I hope a soldier’s death, in a righteous 
cause — if we die — will be a passport for 
us to another world.’ 

‘Take up the Sierras in your puny hand,’ 
said a deep toned voice behind us, ‘hurl 
yonder rock from its basis ; but think not to 
offer unto God a satisfaction for your soul’s 
sinfulness. Neither the correctness of your 
life, (if correct you call it) nor the nobleness 


84 


MY ADVENTURES 


of your death, can avail you aught. There 
is no plea you dare to offer Him, but the 
death and merits of his Son.’ 

‘ I should be very sorry to deny those 
merits, uncle.’ 

‘ There is the way, that men deceive them- 
selves, and contrive to destroy their souls so 
gently, that they are not to be convinced of 
their self-destruction till it is too late,’ said 
Fitzmorris. 

^ Why, Alick, 1 tell you that you live every 
day of your life in the practical denial of 
those merits : and in what you said just now 
to. Traverston, you denied them. If you 
read in your Bible the account of the Re- 
deemer’s death, and fully and entirely be- 
lieved that it was the eterngil, ever-living 
God^ who bowed his head upon the cross, 
and cried, “ It is finished !’ and if you 
weighed the full import of these few words, 
it is impossible, that if you believed, you 
would attempt to add to his finished work, 
that you would not cast your soul upon it for 
salvation ; and seeing that Jesus loved you 
and gave himself for you, you would love 
him, and give up your sins and your pride 
for him, and desire to be holy, and humble, 
and to live with him and to him.’ 

Courtenay seemed a little displeased by 
his uncle’s decisive and uncompromising 
manner : but willing to avoid such argu- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


85 


merits, he left the tent ; and vvhile Fitzmor- 
ris was saying to me, ‘ a friend to all truth, 
but the truth of God,’ he put his head in 
again at the door, and said, laughingly, ‘ un- 
cle, 1 do not think myself by a full half so 
bad a man as yofu think me.’ 


CHAPTER VI. 

I HAD just recovered my strength, and 
was able either to march forwards, or take 
the field with my companions, when we were 
roused at midnight by the beat of the alarm 
drum. We started up, and stood to arms, 
for the picquets had sent word that the enemy 
was in motion ; but after two hours’ anxious 
expectation, it was discovered that they were 
retiring ; their camp fires were left burning, 
but they had drawm off behind the hills : and 
the following day we were ordered to fall 
back, as it was discovered that the project 
the French had long meditated, of re-enter- 
ing Portugal, they w^ere about to put into 
execution. 

Napoleon was then at the height of his 
overgrown power, and exercising what might 


86 


MY ADVENTURES 


seem the extent of an ambition that was real- 
ly boundless. Strange and singular man ! 
raised up for no common purpose, serving 
no common end, it might seem that even he 
had been sent into the world to teach men 
the v/isdom they are so slow to learn ! He 
had left no state on the continent of Europe 
capable of opposing his daring projects, or 
counteracting his ambitious schemes : no 
treaties could hold, no faith could bind, no 
religion restrain him. Italy was conquered 
— the Pope stripped of the temporal power 
to obtain which, his predecessors had toiled, 
and panted, and sinned against God and 
man : the ancient empire of Charlemagne 
was reversed, and the title of Emperor of 
Germany existed no longer among the list of 
monarchs : the power of Austria had been 
nearly annihilated — the battle of Jena had 
been fought — the martial pride of Prussia 
subdued, and its king, wnth the remnant of 
his army, driven into the last fortress that he 
possessed in his own dominions. The fairest 
and richest countries had been desolated — 
the freest and bravest subjugated ; mountains 
and rocks, rivers and forests, had afforded 
no sanctuary to the spirit of freedom, no bar- 
rier to the insatiable rage of conquest, the 
fury of wild ambition. Spain and Portugal 
alone, still resisted the usurper, and struggled 
with the tyrant j and even their struggle, but 


IN PORTUGAL. 87 

for British counsel, and British arms had 
been desperate. 

The brave patriots of Spain had testified 
their hatred of the odious government of Jo- 
seph Buonaparte, and their determination to 
resist the oppressor, by their desperate de- 
fence of Saragossa — a name that may be as 
dear to the patriot and the lover of liberty, 
as many another that has been handed down 
to us encircled with the honours of succeed- 
ing ages. But still, though ardour, and pa- 
triotism, and undisciplined courage may do 
much, it is hard for them to contend with 
those to whom war is a science, a trade, an 
amusement : they could not often stand 
against French tactics united with French 
valour : their enemies had pierced the defiles 
of the Sierra Morena, and possessed them- 
selves of the province of Grenada, and that 
of Andalusia ; Cadiz was besieged ; and 
Portugal was again threatened. 

Wellington’s object was to defend the lat- 
ter, and we were ordered to join his army 
on the strong position he had taken up on 
the frontier. Our tents were soon struck, 
and we were again in motion. On our way 
we heard of the advance of Massena, and 
the siege of Ciudad-Rodrigo. Courtenay 
was standing beside me when the news was 
circulated ; I observed him turn pale, and 
inquired, did he feel unwell. He briefly 


88 


MY ADVENTURES 


answered, ‘ No and sighing heavily, moved 
a few paces off. ‘ What can be the matter?’ 
I asked, turning to another officer beside me. 
‘ I do not know, I am sure,’ was the careless 
answer ; but Charles Fitzmorris, who over- 
heard me, said, in a low voice, ‘You forget 
Louisa.’ Poor Louisa ! she had been left in 
a very poorly defended town on the frontier. 
Courtenay had done all he could to prevail 
on her to remove at all events to Lisbon, if 
she would not return to England ; but she 
foolishly thought, that if in the same country 
with her husband, she could hear more of 
him — perhaps reach him easier. 

The cloud of anxiety never removed from 
Courtenay’s brow while on the march ; and 
when we halted, he did not, as usual, seek a 
resting place beneath the shade of the same 
tree, or join the circle round the same fire 
with his brother officers : he avoided all con- 
versation, all allusion to the subject on which 
his mind so intently dwelt, that often his 
military duties were performed rather as a 
mechanical service, than with the prompti- 
tude, the alacrity, and attention to discipline, 
that made him, together with his known and 
tried valour, be regarded as one of the best 
officers in the service. I pitied him the 
more, when I found he was one of those who 
could not, or would not, suffer his feelings to 


IN PORTUGAL. 


89 


be known, and claim our sympathy and pity 
by their detail. 

The untouched vineyards and uninjured 
corn-fields, as we retraced our route, showed 
us the French had not passed by this line of 
march before us. But as we advanced, the 
symptoms of terror the poor peasants enter- 
tained of their invaders became apparent : 
the cottages were closed or deserted, the 
sounds of mirth had ceased, and anxious 
fear, or eager inquiry was pictured on every 
face that approached our line, to ask infor- 
mation from our soldiers of the progress of 
the French army. 

As we approached the town we had left, 
these symptoms became more and more vis- 
ible ; and when we came in view of it, the 
cloud deepened on poor Courtenay’s brow. 
No sound was stirring, no smoke was rising, 
no living thing appeared to be moving back 
and forward ; we entered it, and desolation 
seemed to dwell in its streets, and move 
round its empty houses. Scarcely an inhab- 
itant remained in the town, the Spanish gar- 
rison had been withdrawn on the news of 
Massena’s approach, and they had fled to 
seek for safety elsewhere. We passed by 
the house where we had spent so many 
cheerful evenings — neither Louisa’s guitar, 
nor her voice were heard there now. I 
avoided looking at Courtenay. None of the 


90 


MY ADVENTURES 


few persons who remained here could tell us 
what was become of his poor wife ; the house 
she had lived in was closed and deserted. 
Next morning we left the cheerless place, 
four of us at least, with heavier hearts than 
when we entered it. As we marched out, I 
thought of the last evening we spent there 
formerly ; and, as the thought occurred, my 
eye fell on Courtenay. I had avoided meet- 
ing his, for his look spoke so forcibly, though 
his lips were silent, that I felt unnerved by 
it. But now our eyes encountered, and we 
looked steadily at each other for about a 
second ; and then his, as if satisfied with the 
mute intelligence that spoke of friendly sym- 
pathy, slowly turned away, and not a syllable 
was exchanged between us on the subject, 
till we joined the army of Wellington on the 
heights of Busaco. 

Our march had been a hasty and a fatigu- 
ing one, yet we had only arrived in time to 
join in the severe conflict that was expected 
on the morrow. 

That night Fitzmorris and his son walked 
to the verge of the lofty Sierra, to overlook 
a magnificent and awe-imposing scene. I 
guessed their intention when I saw them 
leave the line together, and followed them 
to the spot on which they stopped. The 
veteran’s arm was raised as I came up, either 
pointing out to the young, ardent soldier by 


IN PORTUGAL. 


91 


his side, some objects that had more partic- 
ularly struck his own eye; or it might be 
only in the energy of speaking — I know not, 
for I was too much engrossed when I joined 
them to think of anything but the sight before 
me. It was not, however, so new to him, 
it did not burst upon him with all that fulness 
of effect which it produced on such raw sol- 
diers as myself. 

We stood on the lofty heights of the Sierra 
de Busaco : beneath us lay an extent of 
country brilliantly illuminated by the enemy’s 
watch-fires, and covered over with the vast 
columns of his army. The clear bright blaze 
ascending at times high into the air, revealed 
the scenery almost distinctly ; showing us 
the piled arms that were to be grasped or 
levelled on the morrow for the work of death ; 
the plumed and helmetted warriors that 
passed and re-passed between them ; the 
enormous masses of men that lay in repose, 
unconscious that ere to-morrow’s night they 
might make that ground their bed forever ; 
the bright glancing of steel, and the redder 
reflection from the brazen helmets, and the 
glittering accoutrements of the assembled 
hosts — the cavalry, the artillery, and the 
long train of a great army — all was mo- 
mentarily revealed, and again enveloped in 
shadow — then the forms dimly seen, the 
fitful lights darting up for a moment, and 


MY ADVENTURES 


92 

falling on piles of arms, swords, muskets, 
bayonets, and ordnance — revealing a little 
more distinctly, the shadowy figures of armed 
men and innumerable war-horses, and then 
sinking and leaving the scene darker and 
heavy — Oh! it was altogether a sight of 
overwhelming interest. 

Charles looked at me and again at his fa- 
ther, and then his eye slowly mounted up- 
wards to the heavens as if he would read in 
the page of futurity the lot of the congregat- 
ed thousands on whom he had been gazing. 

Oh ! it was a soul-impressing thought ! — 
the state of so many immortal souls, to-mor- 
row fixed, eternally fixed — and they, so 
many of them, if they thought at all of a fu- 
ture world, or believed there was one, view- 
ing it as shadowy, dark- — one that they 
could know nothing of till they entered it : 
or else buoying up their souls with the strong 
delusions of superstition, the supports that 
the Roman Catholic religion offers to lull the 
anxious soul to rest until it wakes to find ‘ it 
has loved and believed a lie 1’ 

The conquerors of so many lands were 
before us, some of them stretched in repose, 
others pacing up and down before their 
w'atch-fires, others chatting in groups around 
them, probably talking their battles over 
again ; and others perhaps, to whom fell a 
more important trust, were then deciding on 


IN PORTUGAL. 


93 


the plan of attack with which the morning 
should commence. 

‘ But what will it matter those who fall to- 
morrow,’ said Charles, ‘ that they have uttered 
the shout of victory on Austerlitz — that they 
have swept victorious over Jena, and Wagram, 
and Friedland ; and that over all the names 
they are now proudly recalling to mind, their 
eagles have flown undauntedly ? What will 
it value them when they go to appear before 
their God, that they have reversed states, 
deposed kings, putting down one and setting 
up another — and what use will it then be to 
them that they pursued their fame until it 
expired with themselves on the field of blood.’ 

‘ How many of these men must fall to- 
morrow !’ said Fitzmorris, who had been 
sternly eyeing the scene before him. 

‘ Perhaps some of ourselves among the 
first, father,’ replied his son. Fitzmorris in- 
stinctively grasped his arm, and turned away 
with him, as if the words conveyed some 
keen prognostic to his parental heart ; but, a 
moment after, ashamed of the feeling he had 
let appear, he dropped his arm again, and 
walked on a few paces before us. 

‘ My poor father !’ Charles whispered. 
‘Well,’ he added with a smile, ‘ if I were an 
unbeliever J should be a coward !’ 

‘ Why religion is generally said to be unfit 
for military men, because it makes them 
cowards, Charles. I have heard it said that 
9 


94 


MY ADVENTURES 


those who think deeply of their accountability 
hereafter, and are in continual apprehension 
of their state after death, can never face dan- 
ger undauntedly.’ 

‘ Oh ! I grant you that. If I were to think 
of my accountability hereafter with the ex- 
pectation of being obliged to render in such 
an account as would obtain me admittance 
to heaven, truly I should shrink from the 
thought, and tremble at death ; for I would 
believe it would be to me an entrance on 
everlasting misery. 

I gazed upon his pure countenance while he 
spoke, and had I been untaught in sacred 
truths, I should have exclaimed, — ‘you, 
Charles! so pure, so innocent, so good — 
you dread to give to your God the account 
you owe, unmarked as it is, in its few brief 
pages, with the stain of sin, the blot of a sin- 
gle vice !’ But 1 knew too well what the 
state of fallen humanity was thus to speak, 
and Charles went on. 

‘ And then, as to apprehension of our state 
after death — if I felt that apprehension, I 
should, I know, fear danger too : but this 
belongs not to the faith of Christ — it is the 
absence of that faith that makes us fearful ; 
and when the believer fears, he is, like Peter, 
ready to sink : he ceased to fear when the 
Saviour’s hand upheld him, and he who be- 
lieves that Christ died that the sinner might 
live, does not fear. Oh ! if I looked only at 


IN PORTUGAL. 95 

myself, I might well tremble, but when I look 
to Jesus I fear nothing !’ 

Sweet, holy, happy youth, I thought, as, 
rolled in my cloak, I lay down on the moun- 
tain to rest my tired limbs a little, before the 
spirit-stirring drum should call us up to strife 
and arms — it might be to blood, and wounds, 
and death. Sweet, holy youth, I thought, 
had I thy faith T should share the happiness 
of thy joyous heart !’ 


CHAPTER VII. 

The next morning’s dawn showed us the 
formidable array of the enemy ; and the dis- 
charge of cannon, and the long, heavy roll of 
musketry announced to us the commencement 
of their attack on our position. We were 
soon ordered forward ; when nearly ready to 
move, Courtenay dropped for an instant from 
his command, and coming up to me put his 
hand on my shoulder, and said, in a low, 
hurried tone — ‘ Traverston, men like us can- 
not tell what is before us : in case these fel- 
lows penetrate further, you will perhaps push 
on to Lisbon. If I — you will remember — 
you will inquire — my wife — perhaps ’ 


96 


MY ADVENTURES 


He was agitated and hurried, but I understood 
him. I had only time to grasp his hand and 
say, * Depend on me,’ when he fell into his 
place ; and our regiment was soon in action. 

It is not my intention to dwell on battle 
details ; it was when the fight was done, the 
attack repulsed, and we breathed from the 
scene of strife, that I sought intelligence of 
Courtenay ; a fearful misgiving hung over 
me, and I almost expected to find he was 
numbered with the slain ; but I found him at 
the command he had been assigned, safe and 
unhurt. Charles' was not with us, but he was 
soon after found upon the side of a hill, down 
which the detachment he was with had pur- 
sued the flying enemy : he was reclining on 
his elbow, looking pale, and the blood flowing 
from his side. My eye fell on his sweetly 
composed face ; 1 darted towards him, but I 
could not speak : he smiled and said, ‘ It is 
nothing, Traverston — a mere flesh wound.’ 

I hoped it was the case, and had him car- 
ried to his father’s tent. I could not follow 
him, and duty detained Fitzmorris elsewhere; 
he did not know of his son’s state until he 
came up, when I had at last got to him. He 
fixed his eyes firmly on the wounded lad, 
then turning to the surgeon who was with him, 
bluntly asked, ‘ is it dangerous ‘ Not at 
all,’ was the answer that set us all at ease ; 
Fitzmorris turned away and uttered a loud, 
emphatic ‘ hem !’ What would this man suf- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


97 


fer, thought I, if it was the will of Heaven, 
or, as some would say, the chance of war, 
that he should lose this youth. I saw, how- 
ever, that the wound was not, as the surgeon 
had said, at all dangerous, but promised on 
the contrary a very speedy cure ; and busi- 
ness calling me away, as another attack was 
expected, and our line of battle to be pre- 
served, 1 left him to take rny station on a very 
elevated position, where, with my party, I 
passed the night in such reflections as such a 
scene and such circumstances must, 1 think, 
excite in a mind that is capable of reflection 
or feeling. 

On that night we were, indeed, obliged to 

‘ Lie down to rest with the corslet braced,’ 

our arms by our sides, and our battle line 
unbroken. But the morning was not ushered 
in with the horrid sounds of war sinning 
against its purity and freshness. The enemy 
drew off: and soon after we were on the way 
to Lisbon, on which Wellington had resolved 
to retire. 

Oh ! Britain — happy, enviable Britain — 
hemmed in by the waves, and enclosed, like 
a gem, in the bosom of the ocean : proud of 
thy privileges thou art ; but, oh ! be thankful 
for them. No scourge of war sweeps thy 
plains — no tyrants oppress thy free-born sons 
— no fell superstition conjures up its train 
of evils, and lies darkly on the genius, the 


98 


MY ADVENTURES 


spirit, the minds of thy children. Give me 
thy clouded sky, thy tame prospects, thy un- 
genial clime, and let me share with these, the 
blessings and the exemptions that have fallen 
to thy lot. 

Such thoughts passed in my mind, as we 
continued our march through scenes of chilling 
and blighting desolation. In pursuance of 
the order they had received, the unfortunate 
Portuguese fled before the approach of Mas- 
sena’s army, destroying all the property tliey 
could not carry away ; ruining every thing 
that had tended to their own subsistence, and 
which might contribute now to the support of 
their enemies. Oh, it was a dreary scene ! 
1 have been told that the heart of a soldier, 
after one campaign, is steeled : mine was not 
then — is not, I believe, still. There was not 
an empty cottage, with its neglected flowers 
trampled down and withered, its untrellised 
walls, its desolated air, but spoke to my heart; 
not a deserted village but conjured up in my 
imagination, full many a tale of wo and pity, 
which was doubtless far exceeded by the re- 
ality, could that reality be known. 

Along the road we met troops of the forlorn 
and destitute people, some of whom were 
carrying with them whatever they could save 
of their little treasures ; and some of these, 
too, were fair and delicate, unaccustomed, 
apparently, to the rubs and distresses of life ; 
but Ah I though they might save a portion of 


IN PORTUGAL. 


99 


the comforts they had enjoyed, they could 
not save that best of treasures and of comforts 
— a happy, peaceful home! — the homes of 
their fathers had been deserted, perhaps for- 
ever ; the quiet retreats of their youth, the 
houses in which they had expected their 
children, and children’s children would have 
grown grey ; and now they went along for- 
lorn, outcasts from them, weeping as they 
went.’ 

Many a piteous tale we heard from these 
poor creatures, who were all crowding on to 
the capital in search of safety and protection ; 
and these expressed, too, in that blunt sim- 
plicity that always goes straight to the heart, 
pressing all the acme of wretchedness into a 
few strong, unstudied words — for real, accu- 
mulated grief is not fond of lengthening out 
its detail : where sorrow has pressed upon 
sorrow, it does not seek for words to express 
itself ; it just glances at the facts, and leaves 
the rest unsaid. 

Such things accompanied us all the road, 
and their impression on many was visible : 
the feeling was the same, though the rough, 
blunt soldier expressed it in the impatient 
desire of meeting their ruthless invaders, and 
leaching them to rue the day they obeyed the 
call of the ambitious tyrant, and followed his 
proud standard to suffering, desolated Portu- 
gal — or the officer vented, in the language 


100 


MY ADVENTURES 


of deep-toned sensibility, the pity that filled 
his breast. 

When we halted, Charles, who had follow- 
ed on horse-back in the rear, joined me under 
a cork tree : much such a one as that under 
which we had lain the first nij^ht our intimacy 
commenced. As he sat down, apparently 
fatigued in body and mind, be drew his hand 
across his forehead and exclaimed, 

‘Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 

A houndless contiguity of shade J 
Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 

Of unsHiccessCiil, or successful war 
' Should never reach me more I’ 

‘What! you, Charles, turned admirer of 

“The soft and piping time of peace.”’ 

‘ Oh ! most dearly would I love and value 
peace ; but you know 1 am in fact unac- 
quainted with any life but a military one : it 
has been my lot, and I trust that lot has been 
of divine appointment. Yet such a life must 
often, must daily, pain the soul of a Christian. 
Oh, what spectacles have we seen to-day ! 
Did I not feel that 1 assisted in delivering an 
oppressed and injured people, I could not 
stand all this. No ; I would renounce my 
profession if it obliged me to be the aggressor. 
I was deeply affected to-day, Traverston, by 
the moving speech of a very old man ; he 
was slowly advancing in the rear, and I fell 
into conversation with him : he told me that 
he had left his comfortable little home, where 
he had lived with his grandsons, who had 


IN PORTUGAL. 


101 


joined the army : he had been unable to carry 
away his effects, and so had destroyed them 
as well as he could. “ And did you save 
nothing,” I asked. “Yes, Senhor,” he re- 
plied, “I saved these.” And what do you 
think be held up to me ? — a coarse crucifix, 
and a little image of the Virgin Mary !’ 

‘ His household gods,’ I said, with a smile, 
‘ poor man !’ 

‘ Oh ! Traverston, you cannot conceive 
what I felt, when he pressed the crucifix so 
devoutly to his lips, and held up the image to 
his old eyes, with a look so full of rapturous 
adoration.’ 

‘Were you glad to find that religion was 
the slay and comfort of a desolate outcast, in 
his hour of extremity, Charles?’ 

‘ Traverston, I could not desecrate religion, 
by calling that by its name ! 1 may be 

wrong ; for you know I am, in fact, but an 
untaught boy. I have not learned religion 
from divines ; my Bible has been my only 
teacher, with the exception, indeed, of the 
brief, strong lessons of my dear father : from 
it I draw my religious opinions, and by it, if 
I may say so, I form my religious tastes. I 
am well accustomed to the Roman Catholic 
religion I have often witnessed its ceremo- 
nies in all their pomp, and its superstitions in 
their extremest simplicity. But they never 
had the imposing effect on me they have had 
on others. Where they have seen devotion, 
10 


102 


MY ADVENTURES 


I have seen idolatry ; where they have been 
enchanted, I have been disgusted ; where 
they talked of elevation of the heart, of sub- 
lime feelings only, of ardent devotion, I had 
' felt depressed and sad — had mourned the 
error, or pitied the delusion of my fellow 
creatures.’ 

‘And whence this difference of feeling, 
Charles?’ 

‘I cannot well explain, unless it w^ere that 
they viewed these things with the mere feel- 
ings of nature, and 1 compared them with the 
revealed will and word of God. Their sen- 
sibilities w^ere excited by the apparent humil- 
iation of tlie penitent, or the devout homage 
of the w’orshipper : their romantic feelings 
were perhaps kindled by the ardent address 
of the supplicant to his patron saint — for the 
idea of holy guardianship, of some pure spirit 
watching and caring for an erring mortal, 
beset with dangers, and encompassed with 
human ills, is quite congenial to such a mind ; 
and probably many of my companions, at 
such scenes, would not be soi ry if they too 
could secure by vows and offerings, the me- 
diation and protection of some holy being. 
But one who knew^ a Saviour’s name, who 
shared a Saviour’s love, who desired a Sa- 
viour’s glory, could have no such feelings ; 
one who wished his motto to be “ Jehovah 
Jireh,” never could turn to such inferior aid. 
I knew the Scriptures were silent ; nay, if 


IN PORTUGAL, 


103 


the expression be allowed, I would say more 
than silent on the subject of saintly mediation ; 
such an erroneous idea seems guarded against, 
and reprobated. Christ is upheld throughout 
the New Testament as the one and only Me- 
diator; as “Him whom the Father heareth 
always.” And then could I derive any prof- 
itable feeling (unless indeed it were gratitude 
to my God, who had saved me from similar 
delusion) from witnessing penances imposed 
by others — or self-inflicted — on poor crea- 
tures who were thus departing from their own 
peace, despising the covenant of their God, 
and setting aside his rich, free, gracious pro- 
mises of mercy.’ 

‘ What do you mean, Charles ?’ 

‘ Ask any one you see performing an act 
of penance, wherefore they thus harass them- 
selves; you will be told it is to atone for sin. 
What saith the word of God, “ with his own 
blood he entered into the heavens, ha\mig 
obtained eternal redemption for us.” And 
again, “there remaineili therefore no more 
sacrifice for sin.” Now, it appears to me 
that we make anything a sacrifice for sin, 
which we do as an act of atonement for it, 
and a means of obtaining our reconciliation 
with God ; and while we rest on our own 
strivings, mortifications, and workings, the 
hope of our salvation being effected, are we 
not overlooking, or in the secret pride of our 
hearts despising the offer of eternal redemp- 


104 


MY ADVENTURES 


tion, through the blood of Christ ? Can we 
dare to mix up the sufferings of our poor 
perishing bodies (even if the suffering of the 
body could atone for the sin of the soul) with 
those He endured for us? Oh ! no — 1 think 
not — 1 believe that we must have salvation of 
grace, and not of debt, or else, though we 
will not confess it, we hope in the pride of 
our miserable hearts to effect our salvation, 
as of debt entirely^ through our own merits ; 
for I think no person can seriously consider 
the subject, and hope to unite their own works 
with the Redeemer’s merits. I know,’ he 
continued ; for whenever Charles spoke on 
any subject in which he thought a friend dif- 
fered with him, he always became doubly 
warm and animated, and seemed desirous of 
speaking more at length than at other times ; 
it was his warm feelings carried him on ; his 
affectionate heart seldom rested content as 
long as he thought he did not share tlie sen- 
timents of one he cordially loved and esteem- 
ed ; he wished to convince, or be convinced, 
not in the proud, dogmatical spirit of drawing 
another into all his views and opinions, but 
in order that a oneness of sentiment and opin- 
ion might subsist between him and his friend, 
as much as it could do in two bodies. 

‘I know,’ he continued, ‘there are many 
Protestants who would differ from me in the 
feelings with which they regard the customs 
of these countries, especially as to their effect 


IN PORTUGAL. 


105 


on the population, generally speaking. I do 
not speak of opinions, because I believe that 
the religious opinions of merely nominal Pro- 
testants, when examined, generally differ very 
little from those of the Roman Catholic, as 
they regard the way of salvation. Justifica- 
tion through works is generally the foundation 
on which both rest; but among the former, 
the doctrine has produced no results at all ; 
among the latter, it has reared the vast super- 
structure of error, superstition, and power, 
which prevails in their church. 

‘ I would, however, expect that xhQ feelings 
of even a nominal Protestant, and especially 
of an Englishman, would shrink from the 
practices and observances which many of our 
officers seem to admire, or at least regard 
with complacency. When Popery stalks be- 
fore them in all its gigantic enormity ; when 
they see it matured in the Inquisition, or hear 
of it in the auto da fe ; when they observe 
its influence in depressing the genius, and 
enslaving the minds of men ; when, in short, 
they see it in Spain, dwelling in its dark, un- 
controllable sway, they call it a vile, debasing 
superstition, and wish a race of men, who 
want not courage, genius, capability to rise 
and be free and enlightened, would burst its 
slavish yoke, annihilate its usurping powers, 
and be superior to its influence. When they 
see its spirit developed in the persons of its 
pontiffs — a Gregory stripping an emperor of 


106 


MY ADVENTURES 


Germany of his crown, and with more inso- 
lence than Napoleon has shown to his succes- 
sor, keeping him, while waiting his pleasure 
to admit him to his presence, clothed in sack- 
cloth with uncovered head and bare feet, 
while the snow lay on the ground, and his 
Holiness was enjoying the comforts and fes- 
tivities of a palace ; or another of these arro- 
gant men, presenting an English monarch 
with his crown to wear, as his gift, and during 
his pleasure ; then their indignation, as men, 
is excited ; they wonder the world did not 
rise and teach these kings of kings, that claim 
what power they might in heaven, on earth 
such sway was not to be given to the succes- 
sors of the humble Galilean fisherman. But 
when they see only its mild, soft features, 
gently shown in the pious reverence of a sim- 
ple peasant, for his little shrines, his cross, his 
images, the comfort that dependence on the 
protection of his saints affords him, the high- 
wrought feelings that belief in invisible agency 
excites, or the lowly reverence, that piety 
prompts the untaught man to pay before some 
sacred shrine, some holy image ; when they 
see in a chapel, as is common, some prostrate 
form — it may be that of youth and loveliness, 
or that of decrepitude and age — devoutly 
breathing out the language of adoration, or 
offering the humble prayer of the suppliant 
before the representation of their patron saint ; 
then they forget that they still look at the same 


IN PORTUGAI*. 


107 


thing : they call this religion, devotion, piety, 
though language failed them to express their 
detestation of the other. Yet who that has 
ever known anything of the history of Popery, 
but knows it was by the influence of what 
these persons would call holy superstitions, 
that it obtained that influence over the minds 
of men, by which it rose to the assumption 
of its temporal power. Now, my friend,’ he 
added, putting his hand on my arm, and look- 
ing entreatingly in my face, * pardon me for 
this long, tiresome speech, and tell me, do 
you think still that I was wrong, in regarding 
the -adoration which that poor man paid to a 
couple of paltry little images, with feelings of 
pity, mixed with a sort of abhorrence, which 
a person who had never considered these 
things, would say, was uncharitable, unfeeling 
bigotry ?’ 

‘No, Charles; I never thought so, I only 
appeared to differ with you in order to draw 
out your opinions more fully : for 1 know that 
is always the way to succeed effectually when 
I wish to do so.’ 

‘ What an artful fellow you are’! so I have 
been holding forth all this time to no purpose.’ 

‘ Nay ; 1 think you have given me some 
fresh ideas on the subject ; but in truth, no 
one can be less a friend to the Roman Cath- 
olic religion than myself : 1 know too much 
of its spirit, (and here again retrospection 
caused a sigh,) to conciliate well with it.’ 


108 


MY ADVKNTURES 


‘ How SO ? your acquaintance must have 
been made through books ; you have not, 
until lately, been in Catholic countries ?’ 

‘ Not in foreign ones ; but my own poor 
native isle is a sad example of its effects : 
there Popery, struggling, subdued, and crest- 
fallen, still maintains its sway, and exerts its 
efforts more, perhaps, than it does in countries 
where it is universally acknowledged. Like 
the concentrated army, it appears stronger 
and less penetrable when it is restricted to a 
narrow compass, and sullenly eyes the oppos- 
ing force. Ireland, unhappy Ireland ’ 

A stir a little behind us made me stop ; we 
had been chatting at our ease, not supposing 
our friendly tree had another tenant, but now 
we perceived a young officer of our company, 
who was reclining at its other side : the last 
words I uttered had made him start a little 
up, his face was turned toward us, and his 
dark eye was fired with the same passions 
that had reddened his cheek. I knew he 
was a Roman Catholic ; a high-spirited, but 
agreeable young man ; and I felt sorry that 
he had overheard a conversation which must, 
1 thought, have irritated his feelings, even if 
he possessed scarcely more of religion than 
the name. But Charles turned round, with 
a look and manner that, to a man of frankness 
and placability must have been irresistible. 

‘Devereux!’ he exclaimed, ‘we did not 
know you were among us, and here Traver^ 


IN PORTUGAL. 


109 ' 

ston and I have been freely expressing our 
sentiments to one another with less care than 
» we should have done, if we supposed the 
feelings of a third person might be hurt by 
anything we said.’ 

‘ 1 had no intention of listening to your 
sentiments, Mr. Fitzmorris,’ said Deveraux, 
coldly. ‘ I placed myself here' accidentally, 
and believing that your conversation was in- 
different, I did not think it necessary to re- 
move, till ’ 

‘ Oh, do not attempt an explanation, pray,’ 
Charles replied, laughing ; ‘ for if you did not 
dislike hearing our conversation, I am sure 
we had no objection that you should not only 
hear, but join in it.’ 

‘1 think if apologies are necessary, they 
should come from our quarter,’ I said, though 
without Charles’s freedom of manner; ‘but 
Mr. Devereux will remember that if we had 
been aware of his being present, our thoughts 
would not have been so freely expressed.’ 

‘ Every man is at liberty to think as he 
pleases on these subjects, and to speak so too,’ 
said Devereux, haughtily, and rising slowly as 
lie spoke. 

‘Yes, my dear Sir,’ the warm-hearted 
Charles exclaimed, ‘ liberty of conscience is 
the glorious birthright of every human being.’ 

‘And who wishes to take it from them 
said Devereux. 


110 


MY ADVENTURES 


‘ The Roman Catholic priesthood,’ Charles 
answered, in an unmoved voice. 

‘ Sir !’ cried Devereux, starting on his feet, 
and turning full round to poor Charles, with 
a look of angry defiance. I was about to in- 
terpose ; for the fiery eye and Hushed cheek 
of the young man, declared he would not 
hear his religion insulted with calmness. But 
Charles cut me short in my mediatorial speech. 

‘ Come now, Devereux,’ he said, carelessly, 
putting me aside, and looking up to him with 
his laughing eyes, ‘ T have not the least idea 
of entering on a holy war with you, nor of 
deciding with our swords, the purity of our 
respective faiths : say as much as you please 
against Protestantism, and, staunch Protestant 
as I am, I will listen patiently. But you 
Catholics, certainly set us an example of re- 
ligious zeal ; for a word spoken against your 
church, sets you all on fire ; while we stand 
by and hear our religion pulled to pieces with 
the greatest sang froid. Now do join us 
here,’ laying his hand on the ground at his 
side, ‘ and let us speak as dispassionately as 
if you were a Jew and I a Mahometan, dis- 
cussing the merits of two religions in which 
neither of us had any interest.’ 

‘ Excuse me ; I am no divine,’ said Dev- 
ereux, drawing back. 

‘ Why it was not as a divine surely, that I 
asked you to speak. But indeed I firmly 
expected to be called on for an explanation 


IN PORTUGAL. 


Ill 


of my bold assertion, and for once I find an 
Irishman backward in calling another to ac- 
count.’ 

Devereux could hardly forbear a smile ; 
but, unwilling to be cheated into good-humour, 
he left us, and moved to another place. 
Charles had completely thrown a screen over 
me, and I supposed he either thought him a 
rattle-pated boy beneath his notice, or did not 
care to embroil himself with the son of his 
colonel. Devereux had only exchanged into 
our regiment just as we were on the point of 
embarking ; our acquaintance since, had been 
as slight as it well could be : I thought now 
that he seemed a fiery-tempered, unamiable 
young man, and determined it should not in- 
crease ; but when I recollected our long 
irritating conversation, I began to think my 
opinion unjust ; the indignation he had show- 
ed, seemed only natural and right, and I only 
felt surprised at his keeping his ground so 
long. 

This occurrence effectually broke off our 
conversation 5 but I knew Charles would not 
fail to renew it at another time. 


112 


MY ADVENTURES 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Before we were again put into marching 
order, I encountered Courtenay, he was look- 
ing pale and care-worn : I was distressed at 
his appearance, and after a few minutes’ in- 
different conversation, for a strange reserve 
hung over his manner, I inquired was he ill. 

‘ A slight headache only,’ he said, putting 
his hand on his temples, but he sighed heavily 
as he spoke. 

‘ Courtenay,’ I suddenly said, ‘ I have no 
doubt but you will meet your wife at Lisbon.’ 

‘ Why do you say so ?’ he asked, turning 
quite round to me. 

‘ Because everything favours the idea that 
she is there. It would be easy for her when 
she thought herself no longer secure where 
she was, to accompany some of the numerous 
trains that were daily passing and re-passing ; 
you told me she was intimate with a family at 
Lisbon, where you wished her to go before 
you left her ; her very desire of meeting with 
you, would lead her there, when the invasion 
was rumoured ; and she knew that we would 
of course endeavour to prevent its extension 
to the capital ; everything, therefore, seems 


IN PORTUGAL. 


113 


to render it almost certain that she is there 
now, safely waiting your arrival ; and I would 
advise you to take care not to let her see 
such a haggard and wo-begone countenance 
as you have been showing us these some days 
back.’ 

He faintly smiled, and after a moment’s 
silence, said, thoughtfully, ‘ I think you are 
right — my uncle is decidedly of your opinion ; 
and indeed I am almost certain myself, that 
— if Louisa lives — she is at Lisbon.’ 

‘ Lives ! — how can you let such ideas into 
your mind, Courtenay?’ 

‘ Ah ! Traverston, you little know all the 
ideas, that in such a situation as mine, will 
come into the mind !’ 

I echoed back his sigh, for a painful idea 
was awakened in my own mind. He looked 
at me steadily, and then seeming to recollect 
something that he had known before, or to 
discover something he had not known, he said 
with a lighter countenance, as if his anxiety 
had thrown off half its weight by the remem- 
brance, ‘ Well ! none of us are without our 
trials.’ 

‘ None, Courtenay ! happy is he who early 
makes up his mind to bear them, and bears 
them unrepiningly !’ 

‘ Oh ! Traverston, would you wish to be so 
stoical ? I thought you had too much sensi- 
bility and fineness of feeling, and all that ro- 
mantic sort of thing, for such cold philosophy 


114 


MY ADVENTURES 


as that ; enough for one like me — un dia- 
man brun at best, to express such a senti- 
ment.’ 

‘ Courtenay, you remind me of children 
that I have seen cover up their laughing 
faces, and cry out that they were hid or gone 
away.’ ( 

‘ What do you mean ?’ 

‘ Why there is not a man possesses deep- 
er and keener feelings than yourself and yet 
because you throw a flimsy screen over 
them, and tell us that you are what you are 
not, you expect us to believe you.’ 

‘ Well, if you class me with the bo-peep- 
playing children, I cannot help it,’ he said 
smiling ; ‘ but tell me, do you think he would 
promise to be an amiable or pleasing man, who 
could in his youth — that hey-day season of 
life — view in perspective all its evils, and 
coldly study to fortify his breast against feel- 
ing them ?’ 

‘Decidedly not: it was another idea was 
in my mind when I spoke. The man is so 
miserable who possesses no antidote to human 
ills, I thought of the only unfailing, universal 
one, religion. Look at young Fitzrnorris, he 
is not, 1 am sure, invested in a panoply- of 
cold philosophy or stoical resolution, yet I am 
convinced, feeling and sensitive as he is, he 
could bear what neither the one nor the other 
would ever enable him to bear, through the 


) 


IN PORTUGALr. 115 

Strong support that religion would afford 
him. 

‘ Oh yes !’ said Courtenay, with a slight 
yawn that I thought was affected — ‘ religion 
is the shield and buckler of the soul in the 
day of adversity — as holy superstition,’ he 
added, ‘ is of the poor Portuguese and Span- 
iards.’ And then the bugles sounding their 
preparatory notes we separated. 

Still as we went, sights and sounds of hu- 
man wretchedness, that should have made 
many a heart in our ranks feel its own burden 
light, met us at every step. As we approach- 
ed the capital, the crowds of destitute refu- 
gees increased. It was a piteous spectacle ! 
— mothers carrying their infant children, and 
children leading their old parents, the young 
female figure bending under a burden, and 
tottering with fatigue, and the feeble steps of 
age hurrying with w’bat speed they could in 
search of a resting place that would soon be 
exchanged for that of the grave. Courtenay 
was liberal of his money as he passed, but I 
always observed that when he heard the tale 
of some poor woman with an infant in her 
arms, and wdiose husband was with the Por- 
tuguese army, his donations were still more 
liberal. I thought, though, poor fellow, per- 
haps I wronged him, that he was charitable 
to her in the hope of earning for his own wife 
the compassion of strangers — yet he might 


116 


MY ADVENTURES 


have given without, even in this way, hoping 
to receive again. 

Soon after our encampment within the 
British lines, Courtenay and I contrived to get 
to Lisbon. We hurried to the house where 
Louisa’s friends lived ; but his deep anxiety 
deprived him almost of the power of speech. 
I sent in his name, and we waited in an outer 
parlour. Not many moments passed till we 
heard a cry of joy that made Courtenay still 
paler ; he stood rooted to the spot, though a 
light step was heard quickly coming through 
the passage, and he did not move till Louisa 
sprang to his arms. After the first emotion 
of joy was over, she presented a lovely baby, 
that lay quietly cradled on her arm, to her 
overjoyed husband. I then first recollected 
the additional source of anxiety poor Courte- 
nay had had, and after hearing Louisa’s pro- 
gress here explained, which was effected 
through the safe escort that had offered itself 
in a detachment of the Portuguese army that 
was proceeding to Lisbon, in the rear of 
which she travelled, I only staid to congratu- 
late them both, and remind Courtenay of the 
folly of his needless anxiety ; to which, I 
told Louisa, (and poor thing, she looked both 
happy and sad at hearing it) she must ascribe 
his altered looks, rather than to the fatigues 
of war ; and then I left them, sincerely re- 
joiced at the re-union of two affectionate hearts, 


IN PORTUGAL. 


117 


and after walking a little through the town, 
returned to the lines. 

From what small occurrences do events 
that are neither expected, nor thought of, 
sometimes arise ; and how very different does 
the result of botli small and great events often 
prove from that we had anticipated or feared. 
How little idea had I that the conversation 
which was so near producing unpleasant con- 
sequences between Devereux, and Charles, 
and I, should be the means of forming an in- 
timacy among us that might never have subsist- 
ed without this somewhat singular introduction. 

The day after I had been to Lisbon with 
my friend Courtenay, I observed Charles 
Fitzmorris walking up and down with Dever- 
eaux, apparently in earnest conversation ; he 
was speaking with more than usual energy, 
and the action that accompanied his words al- 
ways gave me information of the subject be- 
ing one that interested him. Devereux was 
alternately walking by his side, with his head 
declined and an air of deep attention, and 
stopping short in his walk, facing his antagon- 
ist, as I concluded he was, and eyeing him 
both with surprise and indignation. I loiter- 
ed about the ground with some brother offi- 
cers, amusing myself now and then by watch- 
ing their movements, till Devereux at last 
went off ; and then Charles came up, and 
putting his arm into mine, gradually drew me 
away from my companions. 

11 


118 


MY ADVENTURES 


‘ Now, what do you think Devereux and I 
have been talking about ?’ 

‘ Not renewing your holy war, I hope ?’ I 
said jestingly. 

* Why, yes; and yet poor fellow, he had 
so little defence to make, that ’ 

‘ That you thought the combat too un- 
equal : very modest of you !’ 

‘ Nay, do not impeach my modesty so 
quickly : but poor Devereux, though very 
zealous for the honour of his religion, has, in 
fact, no knowledge of it or of any other ; 
yet if a word is said in seeming disrespect, it 
rouses him like a lion from his lair.’ 

‘ He is a true Irishman, my friend ; that is 
all.’ 

‘ Is it not surprising how much more alive 
your countrymen are to any seeming reflec- 
tion on their religion than those of other 
Catholic countries ?’ 

‘ Because in other countries the suspicion 
of, such a reflection does not exist. In Ire- 
land, the Roman Catholics are accustomed to 
hear objections brought against their religion 
— to know it is politically looked down on — 
and they cherish all that mortified pride that 
makes them appear, when you meet, perhaps, 
an isolated Roman Catholic among a num- 
ber of Protestants, on the watch to observe 
a sarcasm, and generally to avenge the cause 
of a religion, of which, perhaps, they happen 
to know little or nothing ; and a church, 


IN PORTUGAL. 


119 


which they of the better and more enlighten- 
ed class probably continue in, because they 
mistake a foolish sort of pride in remaining in 
a subdued, unimportant church for attach- 
ment to it.’ 

‘ Such, I should think, is exactly the case 
with Devereux,’ said Charles. ‘ He is very 
warm, indeed, on the subject ; but I do not 
notice all his indignation and petulence ; I see 
he is of a fiery sort of temper, but 1 speak on 
what I know to be the truth, let him like it or 
dislike it : and I believe he is beginning to 
think me such an extraordinary sort of genius, 
that there is no use of being angry with me.’ 

‘ How did you come to get upon the sub- 
ject again ?’ 

‘ He was sauntering about after parade, and 
pacing back and forwards by the spot where 
I was standing with Grey and Robertson, set- 
tling how long Massena would maintain him- 
self in the country : when they left me, he 
still continued his solitary promenade, looking 
every time we passed, as if he wished to join 
me ; but not attempting to do so, I went up 
to him at last, and after a few turns he asked 
me — how, 1 do not rightly know, but it was 
awkwardly enough, as if some inward con- 
sciousness made him hesitate — to explain 
what I had asserted the other day, you re- 
member, of the Roman Catholic priesthood 
denying liberty of conscience.’ 

‘ I know — well ?’ 


120 


MY ADVENTURES 


‘ Oh ! it was easily proved : the truth of his- 
tory is borne out by every day’s experience.’ 

‘ How so ?’ 

‘Was liberty of conscience, pray, allowed 
to those, with whose blood Babylon has been 
drunk ? to the 

‘ Slaughtered saints of old,’ 

the persecuted Albigenses and Waldenses, 
and to all their numerous, though scattered 
successors in truth and sufferings, who were 
the witnesses in the ages of darkness of the 
truth of our Lord’s declaration, that the gates 
of hell should not prevail against his church ; 
that, though, like the out-cast Jews, these 
poor people were scattered and peeled, de- 
spised and trodden under foot ; He had ‘ one 
of a nation, and two of a people,’ here and 
there hidden in obscurity, or suffering in 
martyrdom, a ‘ seed preserved to praise 
Him ;’ a ‘ church in the wilderness.’ These 
were the precursors of the glorious Reforma- 
tion, which, when its ‘ set lime was come,’ 
not the extinction of such lights as John Huss, 
Jerome of Prague, our own Wickliffe, and 
others, which had been extinguished in their 
own blood, could retard. Time would in- 
deed fail us, were we even to glance over the 
bloody page of Papal history, and read the 
names and the facets that stand there as sad 
mementos to the Romanist, who is inclined 
to consult his own judgment, and think for 
himself on his everlasting interests, what sort 


IN PORTUGAL. 


121 


of liberty of conscience his priests and pon- 
tiffs have allowed : nor is it so long ago that 
eleven heretics, piously devoted in an auto da 
fe, in Madrid, bore witness to the same.’ 

‘ But did Devereux assent to all this ?’ 

‘ Oh ! no indeed ! As to old accounts, they 
could not be depended on : the testimony of 
history, always accepted in any case but this, 
was here quite nugatory ; the promulgators 
of the reformation doctrines were only justly 
punished ; and those who escaped punish- 
ment merited it still more ; — they were 
bad men, violent, implacable: — I know not 
all what, — men who made a noise about re- 
ligion, in order to conceal their own vices, 
and effect their own purposes : and not a 
word could he substantiate, except that Cal- 
vin consented to the death of the heretic Ser- 
vetus, and that Luther married a nun ! ! The 
latter horrible transaction I jestingly told him 
I dare not defend ; but surely, without en- 
listing myself as the champion of poor Calvin, 
I might say, that the Roman church should 
not be displeased with the only relic that she 
can now trace out in the Reformer’s charac- 
ter, of his having been reared in her own 
bosom : and even allowing that he had put 
that blasphemous heretic to death, he only 
carried her own merciful intentions into ef- 
fect ; for Servetus had been sentenced be- 
fore to be burned to death by the Roman 
Catholics. Well, Devereux sometimes dis- 


122 


MY ADVENTURES 


puted, and sometimes peremptorily denied, 
and affirmed, and looked angry, and talked 
big, and flung his sword about as bravely as 
if it had been a shillelagh — pardon me, 
Traverston — but I believe he would almost 
as soon face a score of French bayonets as 
attempt again to combat the host of witnesses 
that rise up to prove the sort of liberty of 
conscience his church allows of.’ 

‘ But did you bring your witnesses entirely 
from past ages ?’ 

‘ Why, what a melancholy voice is that, 
Traverston !’ 

I felt the blood rush to my face and retire 
again so suddenly, that I knew an attempt at 
indifference was useless. Charles perceived 
it, and with his usual delicacy, immediately 
averted his eyes ; but fearing that his excla- 
mation had given me pain, he said in his own 
peculiar voice of deep-toned feeling, ‘ For- 
give me, my dear friend, I did not mean to 
be impertinent and then, to spare me a re- 
ply, he hastily went on — 

‘ No, I did not bring all my witnesses from 
past age? ; for I gave him an instance in 
modern times that you will think ludicrous. 
I produced the defendant in the cause as wit- 
ness against himself.’ 

‘ What rattling is this, Charles ?’ 

‘ I assure you 1 am quite serious, and the 
evidence of this witness was the only convinc- 
ing and undeniable one, that poor Devereux 


IN PORTUGAL. 


123 


himself was obliged to admit. We had been 
so long talking of generals that I thought it 
was quite time to come to particulars ; and so 
I bluntly asked him a question that was, per- 
haps, never put to him before: I asked him 
how he hoped to be saved. Poor fellow ! if 
our general were to ask him, when the ene- 
my was coming up, how he should regulate 
the order of battle, I do believe he would not 
be more perplexed ! He muttered something 
of doing the best he could, and leaving the 
rest to the clergy. ‘ Do you ever read the 
Bible ?’ I inquired. No, he had no concern 
with such a book — it was too deep, too full 
of mysteries to be read by persons who had 
not professedly made sacred things their 
study — when he wanted spiritual direction 
he could apply to his clergy. 

‘ I listened as patiently as I could, though I 
began to get very fidgetty, and was once or 
twice very near bursting out into what he 
would have called enthusiastic ranting. When 
he had done, I said, ‘ But suppose, Dever- 
eux, that you were to read the Bible ; that 
believing it was the revelation of God to men, 
a revelation without which the world would 
never have known God ; believing that it was 
given to men without limitation — that it was 
as freely offered to every maa as the mercy 
of its Author, and that its design was to point 
out the way to heaven for all mankind — and 
that from it, or in any other way, you were to 


124 MY ADVENTURES 

discover that there was another road to heaven 
than that your priests had pointed out to you, 
and that you became convinced on close ex- 
amination — and we will say, prayer for divine 
assistance, that it was the right one, and told 
your priests that you were resolved to obey 
your own judgment and the dictates of your 
own conscience, what would be the conse- 
sequence ?’ 

‘ Why, I suppose, if I refused to obey the 
church I should be put out of it.’ 

‘ Do you mean, that if you persevered in 
maintaining religious opinions that were not 
in accordance with those the Roman cliurch 
laid down, you should be excommunicated ?’ 

‘ Certainly.’ 

‘ And is this your liberty of conscience ?’ 

‘ 1 believe he was sorry he had said so 
much, for he soon after v/ent away ; but we 
parted very good friends, and he has promis- 
ed to be more with us than he has been hith- 
erto. He is a fine fellow — he seems so 
anxious — so zealous for the honour of the 
holy Catholic church !’ 

‘ Oh, to what criminal, to what frightful 
lengths may an imaginary, or a worked-up 
zeal for the honour of their church, hurry a 
Roman Catholic !’ I said, as a corporal came 
up to call Charles to his father ; and I con- 
tinued my promenade alone, and dwelt, pain- 
fully dwelt, on restrospections that our last 
words occasioned. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


125 


While waiting till the enemy was starved 
out of Portugal, our time passed not unpleas- 
antly. Though many surrounded me, my In- 
timate friends were but few : it was the same 
with F^itzrnorris and his son ; for though we 
may liave many acquaintances, the heart will 
still single out for itself those with whom it 
can enjoy the luxury of corresponding feel- 
ing, taste, and disposition ; and thus it is when- 
ever men herd together, as in the army and 
navy, there aie always particular friendships 
formed out of general acquaintances. Courte- 
nay was included in our little coterie, but his 
circle was larger, he was a much more gener- 
al fiivourite than any of us, and the willing- 
ness with which he joined in many things that 
we avoided or disliked, prevented his being 
left to himself so much as we were. Latter- 
ly, indeed, we began to think our little circle 
had gained an acquisition in Devereux, who 
often joined us, and appeared becoming really 
attached to his ardent, but anti-Catholic 
young comrade. 


12 


m 


MT ADVENTURES 


CHAPTER IX. 


One evening vve sauntered down by the 
Tagus, enjoying the interesting and varied 
scenery, and chatting over the slate of the 
country, and the careless levity that prevailed 
in the capital, while so much external misery 
abounded, and such want was felt. Our pro- 
gress was arrested by the soft sweet sounds of 
music, stealing over the evening breeze in 
delightful harmony. 

* Listen I’ Devereux exclaimed, laying his 
hand on my arm, ‘ it is the vesper hymn.’ 
It was softly issuing from a neighbouring con- 
vent : we remained silent and stationary till it 
died away. Charles, who was passionately 
fond of music, especially vocal, seemed to 
hang upon the sounds ; and when they ceas- 
ed, still maintained his listening attitude. 

‘ Will you not admit that the spirit of pure 
and holy piety breathed there ?’ said Dever- 
eux as we walked on. 

‘ I should be sorry to deny that piety can 
dwell in convents, as well as in cities ; and be 
heard in a Portuguese hymn as well as in an 
English one,’ said Charles j ‘ but 1 think the 


IN PORTUGAL. 


127 


piety that prompts any one to seclude them- 
selves from society, is at best mistaken, and 
that the good which religious houses have 
done, is far more than counterbalanced by the 
evil.’ 

‘ I believe that has been admitted,’ said 
I, ‘ by Roman Catholics themselves, who 
have groaned under the enormous abuses of 
ecclesiastical power and exactions.’ 

‘ Then they would of course feel indebted 
to Napoleon,’ said Devereux, smiling ; ‘ but 
for my part, although I cannot say 1 have any 
desire to enter a convent myself, I cannot but 
venerate the piety that leads others there.’ 

‘ Now, Devereux, will you tell me which 
would you honour the Spanish patriots more, 
if they were to retire into forts, leaving their 
foes in possession of their country to treat 
their poor countrymen as they pleased ; or if 
they faced them in the field, contested it with 
them, and won the day ?’ 

‘For the latter to be sure; but how you 
mean to turn against me, J do not know.’ 

‘ Against monks and nuns only, Devereux : 
for what are tlie reasons they allege for re- 
tiring to convents.? — are they not in general, 
a wish to avoid temptations, to shut out the 
world and its vanities, and devote themselves 
to God without distraction — without encoun- 
tering anything to draw away their minds 
from holy things .? Now I say that the Chri.s- 
tian who aims at living to God in public as 


128 


MY 'adventures 


well as in private — who combats and resists, 
and overcomes temptations — avoids the van- 
ities of the world without flying from it — 
promotes the glory of God by his example, 
and the knowledge of God by his exertions 
— benefits his fellow-creatures by his activi- 
ty, and daily looks to his God for supplies of , 
grace and strength to enable him, wliile sur- 
rounded by ‘ that evil trinity,’ as some one 
calls ‘ the lust of the flesh, the lust of the 
eye, and the pride of life,’ to ‘ fight the good 
fight of faith and lay hold on eternal life,’ is 
a thousand times more deserving of our ad- 
miration than he who flies from the combat, 
and leads a life of indolent repose, when his 
active exertion might benefit both himself 
and others. But as you say you have no de- 
sire yourself to enter a convent, and as 
I atn sure you will not think of endowing one, 
perhaps I might as w’ell spare you and Tra- 
verslon this protest against their utility ; how- 
ever, as we have got on our old disputations 
again, will you tell me the meaning of acere- 
- mony I witnessed this morning. A troop of 
Portuguese cavalry — soldierly looking men 
— in a moment sprang from their horses, all 
hurry and confusion, uncovered their heads 
and dropped upon their knees ; I looked 
round and saw ’ 

‘The procession of the Host I suppose, 
well ?’ 

‘ What is all this for ?’ 


IN PORTUGAL. 


129 


‘ You surely must know as well as I do, 
Fitzmorris ; you have often been obliged to 
salute it yourself — even the British troops 
present arms when it passes.’ 

‘ I know it,’ said Charles, in a voice that 
showed the knowledge was not an agreeable 
one. ‘ But I ask you as a Roman Catholic, 
why is this done 

‘It is a custom — a, a reverence that is 
paid — ’ 

‘ Paid to what? — to a‘ consecrated wafer ! 
a little morsel of bread that a priest has bless- 
ed — do ) ou pay that iiomage as if it were 
your God ?’ 

' ‘ Fitzmorris,’ cried Devereux sternly, ‘ such 
language is wrong, is blasphemous — from an 
infidel it might be borne — but from yow, you 
who profess such strictness in your own re- 
ligion — 1 will not, 1 cannot bear it!’ 

‘ Pardon me, Devereux, 1 did not wish to 
insult or irritate your feelings ; if 1 have done 
so, I was to blame ; but when you know 
Charles Fitzmorris belter, you will know that 
when he believes himself wrong he does not 
delay to acknowledge it. 1 know I could 
not bear myself to hear the sacramental ele- 
ments which we regard as only figurative, 
lightly spoken of.’ 

‘ Then why speak as you did ?’ said Dev- 
ereux petulantly. 

‘ Fitzmorris has acknowledged himself not 


130 


MY ADVENTURES 


quite right in doing so’ — I interrupted with 
some warmth, — ‘ is not that sufficient ?’ 

‘It is — it is!’ — Devereux exclaimed, 
looking vexed both with himself and us. ‘ I 
am too warm, 1 know — I cannot argue like a 
schoolman, or a divine, but I can feel as a 
maw.’ 

‘ Well, shall we dismiss the subject, or shall 
we speak of it quietly, rationally, as friends, 
as Christians should do ?’ 

‘ I will maintain neutral ground,’ said I, 
‘ determine the matter with Devereux.’ 

‘Do you wish not to do so, Devereux ?’ 

‘ Ob no ! you may say what you please. I 
always expect to be entangled in religious dis- 
putes when 1 am in company with you two 
alone ; and I freely acknowledge they are 
not a little out of my province. I never 
heard so much of religion in my whole life as 
I have done since the day I overheard you 
and Traverston pulling my poor Church to 
pieces under that unlucky tree.’ 

‘ Unlucky tree ! — there is a pretty com- 
pliment to you and I, Traverston,’ said 
Charles ; and then whispered me, ‘ He has 
always been the one to enter on the religious 
disputes himself.’ 

We walked on some way conversing on 
different topics, and then Devereux, as Charles 
seemed to expect, introduced the discarded 
one himself by saying, after having been a 
short time silent, 


IN PORTTGAIx. 


131 


*The Reformers, a^s they are styled, while 
pretending to introduce more Scriptural doc- 
trines than the Church held, attacked one, at 
least, that rested on Scripture ground. ^This 
is my body,’ said our Lord, when he gave his 
disciples the bread.’ 

‘ And can you, in the sober exercise of 
your senses, believe that — while his body 
stood there unchanged before their eyes, and 
his hand presented them with the bread — 
that bread had become transformed into his 
body ? — can one substance become virtually 
another substance, yet both retain their own 
distinct and primitive qualities and powers ?’ 

‘ You must then deny the truth of Scrip- 
ture,’ returned Devereux — ‘ it says express- 
ly ‘ This is my body.’ ’ 

‘ I am rejoiced you are come to Scripture 
argument,’ Charles exclaimed ; Devereux 
coloured, and looked like a person who was 
conscious that they had been repeating at 
second hand an isolated scrap of a work that 
was spoken of, and could get no further. 
Charles was now on his accustomed battle- 
ground ; he drew his pocket Testament from 
his breast, and with a kindling eye and cheek 
turned over its pages. 

‘ Is it not so f’ Devereux asked, evidently 
in some apprehension. 

‘ It is.’ 

‘ 1 knew it !’ he exclaimed exultingly. 

‘ So did I,’ replied Charles. 


132 


MY ADVENTURES 


‘ And what can you say against it 

The other returned in the same tone of 
triumph, 

‘ Nothing — and what can you say against 
the affirmation that follows — ‘ which is given 
for you.’ Now suppose 1 affirm on Scripture 
ground, that the body uf our Lord was then 
actually offered up on the cross, though it is 
said in the account of this transaction, that it 
was the night he was betrayed he took the 
bread — what would you say to me ?’ 

‘ That you made Scripture to contradict 
itself.’ 

‘ Well then, if you say we must understand 
our Lord to signify — ‘ which will he given 
for you’ — may we not as well understand him 
to say, which is symbolical of my body ? and 
what follows fully confirms this meaning, ‘ do 
this in remembrance of me.’ Now we see 
each other every day, we do not want any 
thing to remind us oi‘ one another; if 1 were 
to prescribe to you or Traverston some small 
observance, and bid you do that in remem- 
brance of me, would you not say to me, when 
I leave the regiment I will do it, or when you 
are absent ; but really when you are present 
with me it would be absurd to think of ob- 
serving a practice in remembrance ( f you ^ 
And if our Lord was really to be present wdth 
bis people when they commemorated his love 
and sufferings, would he have made use of 
the expression, ‘ Do it in remembrance ?’ 


IN PORTUGAL. 


133 


‘ Still it has been the old doctrine of Chris- 
tianity ; the Apostles would not, I suppose, 
have preached one that they knew to be 
false.’ 

‘ My dear Devereux !’ Charles exclaimed, 
and cast such a hopeless look at me. I won- 
dered at bis patience, in combating at once 
ignorance and prejudice, but I wondered be- 
cause I forgot that he was a Christian. 

‘ Do you believe,’ he continued, ‘ that the 
doctrine of the real presence was taught by 
the Apostles ?’ 

‘ J suppose so of course.’ 

‘ Oh ! Devereux, if you value your immor- 
tal soul, do, do read the word of God ! Let 
me conjure you as a sincere friend, a disin- 
terested one, to do so. Will you take this 
little Testament, and read it patiently through, 
and then tell me something of the doctrines 
the Apostles preached — not from supposition, 
not on the word of another, but from your own 
inquiry, your own knowledge ?’ 

Devereux to my surprise, took the book 
from his hand, and put it hastily into his 
breast, without saying a word, but I thought 
with a look of secret satisfaction. 

‘ It was not until the year eight hundred 
and seventy something,’ said Charles, musing- 
ly — ‘seventy-nine, 1 think, that the idea of 
the real presence in the sacrament of the 
Lord’s Supper was started by a monk, and 
combated by many others whose understand- 


134 


MY ADVENTURES 


ings were a little offended at being asked to 
believe, that what appeared to their senses to 
be but bread and wine, in form, and taste, and 
properties, was in fact a totally different sub- 
stance ; the one being the flesh the other the 
blood of the Redeemer, which were, by the 
wonder-working priest thus converted, and 
distributed all over the Christian world, wher- 
ever and whenever he chose to pronounce the 
benediction that transformed them.’ 

‘Well, 1 suppose we may dismiss the sub- 
ject now,’ said Devereux, impatiently ; ‘ 1 
cannot see what manner of effect it can have 
either on our lives here, or our happiness 
hereafter, whether we agree or differ upon it.’ 

‘ Perhaps if you were more acquainted with 
Scripture truth, you would think differently, 
Devereux. In the ninth chapter, I think, of 
Paul’s Epistle to the Hebrews — lend me that 
Testament for a moment — you will find Christ 
spoken of as our High Priest, offering unto 
God the sacrifice of himself for our sins ; and 
there and in the following chapter, the apostle 
shows the superiority of that sacrifice which 
needed only once to be offered, to the Jewish 
sacrifices that were offered every year. Yes, 
here it is, at the conclusion of the chapter ; 
I will mark it for you, though I must read it 
now : ‘ Not that he should offer himself of- 
ten, as the high priest entereth into the holy 
place every year with blood of others, for 
then must he often have suffered since the 


IN PORTUGAL. 


135 


foundation of the world ; but now once in the 
end of the world hath he appeared to put 
away sin by the '^crifice of himself ; and as 
it is appointed unto rften once to die, but after 
this ib^ judgment ; so Christ was once offer- 
ed to bear the sins of many, and unto those 
that look foi him, shall he appear the second 
time without sin unto salvation.’ 

Charles closed the little volume, and re- 
turning it to Devereux, said, 

‘ In the sacrifice of the mass, the priest 
does what the apostle believed quite unneces- 
sary for Clirist himself to do : he renews 
every day, the sacrifice which our Lord once 
made of himself. Oh ! little did his faith- 
ful apostle, (unless the falling away w^as fully 
revealed to him) imagine, when he looked 
forward to his appearing the second time, 
that men would ever delude themselves with 
the idea that they beheld his glorified body 
substantially present in the broken bread.’ 


136 


MY ADVENTURES 


CHAPTER X. 


Thus time wore away, and the moment 
Wellington had anticipated and wailed for, 
drew near: Massena without food, clothing, 
or pay, for his troops, was obliged to pre- 
pare for the evacuation of Portugal. On 
the memorable fifth of March he broke up, 
and we prepared to follow him. It was a 
period ardently looked for by our army ; but 
I knew it was one as much dreaded by, at 
least, one fond heart. Poor Louisa — never 
will I forget your last fond words — ‘Oh, 
take care of my husband !’ Poor creature! 
what could / do for you ? yet your words often 
lay like a dead weight upon my heart, and 
gladly, cheerfully would I have taken care of 
your husband, if 1 could have done so by 
giving my valueless life for his ! When 
Courtenay was preparing to leave her again, 
Louisa look her darling infant in her arms, 
and suddenly laying it in his, said, ‘Alexan- 
der, if you can forget, in limes of danger, 
that you hre a husband, still remember you 
are a father,’ 


IN PORTUGAL. 


137 


Courtenay turned pale. I thought Louisa 
did not evince that self-renunciation which 
would have made the mother of Charles Fitz- 
morris spare her husband such a pang : he 
gazed upon his child, stooped his head upon 
its little face, and left a slight dampness on its 
rosy cheek. Unconscious little thing ! it 
opened merrily its pretty blue eyes, and 
laughed, and danced in its father’s arms. 

The retreat of the French army was rapid, 
and, as is well known to all those who follow- 
ed its progress, marked • by traces the most 
appalling — arms, ammunition, and baggage, 
scattered over the road — pieces of cannon, 
broken baggage-waggons, plundered valises, 
corpses of men and horses, were among the 
least so ; for sacked villages and roofless 
houses, murdered peasants, plundered pal- 
aces, cottages, churches, and towns — all 
bore witness to its devastations ; misery, con- 
flagration, and ruin, accompanied the train. 
In the strong expressions of holy writ, ‘ The 
land before them was a garden of the Lord, 
and behind them as a desolate wilderness.’ 

The French army was pursued without in- 
termission, mountains and rivers presented no 
obstacles: but let me pass over all this — it 
was other retrospections 1 intended. 

Though in England the weather, at that 
early season, would be cold, and generally 
dreary, in Spain it was unusually delightlul ; 
and the rural and sunny prospects, where they 


138 


MY ADVENTURES 


were not blighted by the onward rolling of 
the tide of war, often made me wish to linger 
peaceably in such tranquil scenes. But now 
I had done with quiet — every day we were 
in motion, every day on the look out for the 
enemy. Poor Devereux obtained a respite ; 
for when we halted, Charles was generally 
engaged by his father. Courtenay was my 
chief companion at this time, we were daily 
becoming more attached ; though I felt not 
for him the same kind of warm affection I did 
for my ardent, happy, heavenly-minded young 
comrade ; I entertained for him those senti- 
ments of sincere regard and esteem, that were 
founded on a knowledge of his general worth, 
and engaging natural qualities. With Courte- 
nay, 1 could enjoy a pleasure, too, that I could 
not with his young cousin ; though this, 
pleasurable as it was, was still mixed, largely 
mixed with pain. I could with him talk over 
past times, and recall the memory of days 
gone by. 

One day, while conversing thus on times 
that seemed old to us, because our varied 
lives since they had passed, gave us so much 
to look over, in an interim that was really 
short, he asked did I recollect an evening we 
had spent together in Louisa’s house, before 
she had become his wife. ‘ I think it was 
the only ball we were at there,’ he said, ‘ I 
remember it well.’ I knew that he recol- 
lected it, because that was the evening he first 


IN PORTUGAL. 


139 


discovered that he allowed himself to feel a 
more than common interest for a woman 
whose circumstances were so far above his 
own ; but though to him the recollection of 
his feelings on that night, might be pleasura- 
ble, to me it was far otherwise ; this was one 
-of those retrospections that always gave me 
that poignant pang which clouded my brow, 
and forced a sigh, or rather a groan irom my 
heart. ‘ I remember you left the room very 
suddenly that night,’ said Courtenay, as if re- 
solved to prove my very heart ; ‘ you were 
called away, I believe, to see some friend 
who was ill ?’ 

‘ Yes,’ I replied, in a manner calculated to 
preclude all further questioning ; and as I ut- 
tered the uncourteous word, the fine-toned 
brazen trumpets announcing a movement of 
the cavalry, we hurried to the bivouac, where 
we remained to see what was going forward. 
The men were getting under arms, a division 
of the enemy’s forces had appeared at a lit- • 
tie distance, and their cavalry was forming 
just below us : our’s was immediately order- 
ed forward, and we were thrown into line, 
though it was not expected we would be en- 
gaged. 

‘ What a fine sight is that !’ Courtenay 
said, with a kindling eye, as the cavalry mov- 
ed past us at a rapid pace; their martial ac- 
coutrements, glittering sabres, and prancing 
horses, looking to advantage under a spark- 


140 


MY ADVENTURES 


ling son. A fine young man in a handsome 
hussar uniform rode by as he spoke, and 1 be- 
lieve heard him ; for he cast down his eye 
upon us as he passed, with a glance that said 
he felt the superiority of a cavalry officer : he 
sat upon his horse with such graceful ease, 
and glanced about him with so much self- 
complacency, that one might have supposed 
he was displaying his graceful person in 
Hyde Park, rather than advancing to the 
charge ; so much careless indifference, and so 
much personal vanity and light-mindedness 
appeared about him. 

The enemy’s horse was defeated and driven 
a considerable way ; we were then put into 
motion, but the French retired. Signs of the 
recent engagement met us all along the road ; 
men and horses lying wounded and dying ; 
small parties of fine looking prisoners who were 
conducting to the line ; dead bodies, useless 
sabres, and brazen trumpets, lay scattered 
here and there. But amidst all this, one 
sight stopped me short for a moment — it was 
a light, fine formed figure, cold and stiff — 
the pale motionless features contracted with 
the last spasm that had stiffened them in 
death, — it was that of the young hussar 
whom 1 had noticed not long before. His 
cap was off, his soft curling brown hair was 
mixed with dust and blood — his broken 
sabre lay beside him, and he, stretched on his 
back; with a deep gash across his breast, lay 


IN PORTUGAL. 


141 


on no memorable field of battle, neglected 
and alone. The piety of some Spanish pea- 
sant had clasped his hands as in tlie attitude 
of prayer, after their own manner of laying out 
the dead, and this still more increased the 
humble appearance of the miserable looking 
corpse. ‘ Oh ! what is man ?’ I thought, as I 
looked upon it — ‘ when his breatli goeth forth 
he dieth and returneth to his dust, in that very 
hour his thoughts perish !’ 

I asked Courtenay had he observed this. 
‘Yes — poor fellow !’ was his reply. ‘Well 
Traverston, perhaps beneath that giddy ex- 
terior W'as concealed a good heart and a no- 
bler soul than we expected.’ 

‘ How willing we always are to make our- 
selves think favorably of the dead, if we can,’ 
said I. 

‘To be sure : we w^ould wish others to do 
so towards us. Now, Traverston, 1 know you 
and my uncle Fitzniorris, and that good little 
Charles, do not think me half so good as I 
ought to be ; but if I were laid low, perhaps 
you would wish to think better of me.’ 

‘ 1 am sure you know so well all our senti- 
ments towards you, Courtenay, that 1 need 
not explain them to you.’ 

‘ I do. You all regard me as a good moral 
man — an amiable, good-sort of person, if 
you will ; but not as a Christian.’ 

I could not forbear a smile. 


13 


142 


MY ADVENTURES 


‘ What meaning do you attach to that term 
Courtenay ? every man in Napoleon’s army, 
and in our’s will tell you he is a Christian.’ 

‘ The meaning that all you pious people 
attach to it — the meaning that my uncle, 
and Charles, and yourself would attach — 
not that which the world in general attaches.’ 

‘ And do you think that meaning is cor- 
rect } or do you denounce it as uncharita- 
ble ?’ 

‘ Oh ! I do not know, 1 am sure ; you know 
I have never thought about these things very 
deeply — yet ’ 

‘ But, my friend, is it not necessary to think 
on them? I am glad to hear that lingered-out 
word, yet; it gives hope that you feel there 
is a necessity, and intend to do so. But re- 
collect the old saying, ‘ The road to hell is 
paved with good resolutions !’ — recollect the 
uncertainty of a soldier’s life ; you would 
not wish to die before you knew whether you 
where a Christian or not?’ 

‘ Charles has completed his conquest over 
you, Traverston ; you do not attempt to deny 
that now, as you used to do. But come, let 
us talk no more of death — we are familiar 
enough with it, to be sure, to be hardened 
against it ; yet still there are recollectious for 
some men, that will never allow them to 
familiarize their minds to the thought of its 
approaching themselves.’ Courtenay sighed, 


IN PORTUGAL. 


143 


and after a little, said with a smile, ‘ Travers- 
ton, if you marry, you will grow a coward.’ 

1 did not return his smile, but I said, 
‘Then, Courtenay, I will never a coward.’ 

‘ You are a mysterious fellow,’ he replied ; 
‘ but if the tale I heard was true, from my 
soul I pity you !’ 

‘ What tale ?’ 

‘ About ’ he mentioned a name that 

made the blood leave my face ; but as I turn- 
ed to go away, I was enabled to say with that 
calmness of feeling, which, thanks to the so- 
ciety of my young comrade, or rather to the 
mercy of the God he served, I was daily ac- 
quiring — ‘ Courtenay, we dare not dispute, 
and we must not murmur at the decrees of 
an over-ruling Providence : I am convinced 
it was — it is — it will be for my good.’ 

When I had walked to some little distance 
I looked back, and saw him still standing on 
the spot 1 left him, in a musing attitude, lean- 
ing on his sword. A subsequent remark of 
his made me suppose that he had been then 
engaged in a mental discussion on the nature 
of a Christian’s faith. 

The seige of Badajos — a name that will 
long be remembered by the widow and the 
orphan ; for in its trenches fell many a brave 
soldier, and many a gallant officer — was 
over ; its ramparts were down, and the 
breaches in its walls were left to tell their 
silent tale. I have nothing to do now with 


144 


MY ADVENTURES 


battles and sieges : still less have rny peace- 
ful readers ; yet in a soldier’s retrospections 
these things will sometimes mingle. Oh ! it 
was a fearfully awful sight when the stilly 
hour of night was broken in on by all the hor- 
rid sounds that breathe the fierceness of as- 
sault, and speak of confusion, and slaughter, 
and blood — when its dull, dusky hue was il- 
lumined with blazing rockets, and red flashes 
of fiery light, the bursting of the terrific 
shell, and the ascent of the fire-ball ! 

In the hottest part of the assault 1 saw my 
gallant young comrade, Fitzmorris, mount a 
ladder from which a fine promising officer had 
just dropped lifeless. My eye was on him 
when it was at liberty to wander : 1 saw him 
wounded and taken through the breach. 
Numbers were falling on every side, the 
trenches were filling with the wounded, and 
dead and dying ; shrieks and groans were 
around me, and the sounds of slaughter and 
carnage reminded us that the death of our 
friends, our companions, ourselves was not 
to be a surprise ; still 1 felt the possibility of 
the loss of one friend. But his father saw 
what I did. — 

However, the assault went on, and when it 
was over, we found ourselves in possession of 
a dearly-purchased fortress, and Charles, 
covered with blood and dirt, in his father’s 
arms. He had been wounded in the sword 
arm, and though it occasioned his being tak- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


145 


en, it was a thing of no other consequence. 
Yet this small circumstance was a proof to 
some of us, that we were not prepared to 
lose him. 

A way was now opened to us into the very 
heart of Spain, and our march towards Sala- 
manca was hardly opposed. 

To this period of my life, memory often 
looks back : men I valued were then at my 

side, and friends who Well ! — all this is 

needless. 

When we halted, sometimes amid grand 
romantic scenery, and sometimes in the soft 
loneliness of natural beauty, Courtenay, 
Devereux, Charles Fitzmorris, and I, would 
generally assemble together, and, under the 
shade of a tree, on a rough mountain’s side, 
or in a peasant’s cottage, forget all the priva- 
tions and uncomfortableness that fall to the lot 
of soldiers. 

One evening we had got into a little moun- 
tain hut belonging to some poor shepherd ; he 
was absent, but as his house contained too 
few treasures to need security, we found it 
open and took possession of a lodging for the 
night. We had just lighted up some logs of 
fir, and pieces of brushwood, and whatever 
we could pick up, and were enjoying the 
cheerful blaze, when he came in. It was 
singular to see the figure that entered into the 
brightly illuminated little hut in striking con- 
trast to its red-coated occupants ; his shaggy 




146 


MT ADVENTURES 


dress of black sheep skin, his shepherd's 
staff, his fine erect and sinewy figure, which 
though his grey hair, and the lines of his 
face announced the decline of life, was still 
unbowed by. the infirmities of age, were all 
seen to advantage in the bright uncertain 
light that blazed in his poor little dwelling. 
He was followed by a huge fierce-looking 
wolf-dog, whose appearance made us spring 
up and raise our swords in self-defence, when 
his master laying his hand on the angry ani- 
mal’s neck, instantly restrained its attack. 
He soon became intimate with us — he re- 
garded us as the deliverers of his country, 
and freely bestowed on us all the hospitalities 
that his miserable abode could yield. Poor 
man ! he was left alone, its solitary occupant. 
He told his little tale so simply, so unlabour- 
ed, it was more touching in its unaffected 
pathos than the most wrought-up description. 
He had once been in comfortable and happy 
circumstances, but the misfortunes of his 
country reached to him ; he lost his little 
property — his gallant son joined the Spanish 
patriots on their first struggle for liberty, and 
soon left him childless. Still he had his wife, 
his faithful affectionate wife, who in all his 
losses was his treasure — who in all his 
troubles was his stay — who shared his hard- 
ships, and cheered him when his toil was 
done. But she died too, for her heart was 
broken, though her eye still beamed and her 


IN PORTUGAL. 


147 


lip still smiled for him. He laid her in the 
grave, and there he huried his last ray of joy, 
his last of earthly hope j and then he collect- 
ed the remnant of his little property and gave 
it in a mass for her soul ! 

The shepherd while he spoke, sat on the 
stump of a tree that had been brought in for 
firing ; one arm rested on the neck of his huge 
dog, the elbow of the other was supported on 
his knee, and one side of his face covered 
with his brawny weather-beaten hand. Young 
Fitzmorris was standing opposite to him, lean- 
ing his light graceful figure against the wall of 
the hut, his arms were lightly folded, his head 
a little declined at one side, and his eyes, in 
which sweetness and intelligence were more 
happily and perfectly combined than is usually 
the case, were bent upon the aged and sor- 
row-stricken man, with such a look of pity- 
ing interest as a painter might throw into the 
countenance of some heavenly visitant, some 
benevolent spirit that bent its regards on the 
erring object of its pity and its love. I glanc- 
ed from one to the other ; it is a sketch that 
memory can paint very truly still. 

Devereux was the first that broke the 
silence. ‘ How affecting,’ he exclaimed, 

‘ is the story of the Spanish peasant! — un- 
taught, unsophisticated ; — nature prompts 
the devotion of his heart, and he is actuated 
and governed by her pure dictates !’ 


148 


MY ADVENTURES 


This speech roused Charles from his en- 
trancement ; he darted a glance towards me 
that inquired what was become of truth and 
wisdom ; he did not appear to notice it other- 
wise, but seating liimself beside our host he 
spoke to him in Spanish a few minutes, and 
then joining us around the fire, thoughtfully 
sighed — ‘ poor man !’ and gazed in silence 
on the blazing faggots as if he wished to dis- 
cover like Cowper, 

‘ Trees, churches, and strance visages expressed 
In the red embers ; while willi p. ring eye ^ 

He gazed, himself creating what lie saw.’ 

But Starting from his short abstraction, he 
showed us he had not spent the time 

‘ In indolent vacuity of thouglit,’ 

by exclaiming, ‘ Devereux, will you tell me 
the meaning of the fine speech you made 
just now ?’ 

‘ The meaning was simply what the words 
expressed. I think the religion of the Span- 
ish peasant is touching, is affecting, because 
it is the religion of nature and the heart.’ 

‘The religion of nature!’ — Charles re- 
peated in that emphatic manner that always 
was indicative of a wish to controvert the 
truth of the sentiment he uttered. ‘ The re- 
ligion of nature ! — Devereux, if you wanted 
to trace the progress of society, would you 
repair to Paris or to London to begin your 
study ?’ 

‘ Come Fitzmorris, no more catechising — 
begin whatever you have to say at once ; I 


IN tORTUiSAt. 


149 

never knew t\vo men more different than you 
and your father ; 1 would rather have a lec- 
ture from him than an argument with you ; 
he always comes to the point at once, care- 
less, plain, straight-forward 5 but you go so 
much about, I can never tell what you will 
come to.’ 

‘ I always mean to speak simply, and I will 
be as bluff as my father ; aye, and more so, 
if you please. But answer me this plain 
question : when you speak of the religion of 
nature do you mean the religion that proceeds 
from the light of natural conscience and is 
formed according to the ideas, the inclinations 
and desires of the peculiar people among 
whogi it subsists ? Such is my idea of it. 
Traverston, have you ever reflected on the 
constuution of what Devereux calls the re- 
ligion of nature?’ 

‘ Not much, I confess.’ 

‘ I am sorry for it, fori wanted you to dis- 
pute the ideas 1 have formed in my travels, if 
they are erroneous ; you know that observa- 
tion and reflection have been almost my only 
tutors. I think the genius of the religion that 
we see subsisting among nations, where the 
light of revelation does not extend, appears 
so well adapted to the propensities — the 
ideas of happiness or of good — the objects 
of fear, and those of hope, that prevail among 
each several people — that its human and 
local origin is easily discovered. The war- 
14 


50 


MY ADVENTURES 


rior of the north anticipates no higher bliss 
after death, than drinking ale from the skulls 
of his enemies in the hall of Odin. The 
liberty-loving Indian of North America, hopes 
to roam free and untrammelled through 
etherial space. The religion of nature 
teaches men to expect the rewards that are 
most agreeable to their natural tastes, and 
they make future happiness to consist in the 
enjoyment of the good they would covet on 
earth.’ 

‘ Traverston, that reminds me of a poor 
man in our own country, who was looking in 
at a kitchen window where a fine dinner was 
preparing, and when he moved discontentedly 
away, he consoled himself by saying, ^^h a 
longing glance at the covered board, ‘Well, 
God help us ! — when we get to heaven we 
will have meat every day in the week.” * 

‘ And this in a Christian land ! — in a nom- 
inally Christian land !’ Charles exclaimed — 
‘ Yet there are many, even in favored England 
— aye, and in dear Scotland loo, whose ideas 
of future happiness are not better defined ; 
nor perhaps so well defined ; for they speak 
of a happiness they can conceive nothing of ; 
a happiness, the slightest aspiration after 
which they have never felt — a taste for which 
they have never cultivated. But this is not 
what I wanted to talk about. You acknow- 


* Fact. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


161 


ledge that natural religion is directed to the 
consciences, the desires, hopes and fears of 
men ; that it leads them to propitiate the 
favour of the Deity, which they have to suit 
their own ideas, by vows, and offerings, and 
sacrifices ; and to avert the anger that con- 
science tells them they merit, by self-inflic- 
tions, oblations, and atonements. Now, Dev- 
ereux, is this the religion which a Roman 
Catholic tells me exists in the land where 
Popery dwells enthroned ? If it is so, what 
inference are we to draw, but that its system 
is a human system ; calculated to command 
the minds of men by influencing their pas- 
sions, by speaking to the corruppons of their 
unregenerated nature ?’ 

‘ What do you mean, pray ?’ 

‘ I mean that the religion of the gospel — 
the religion of unadulterated Christianity, is 
calculated to combat all the wants apd woes, 
the infirmities and corruptions of our nature. 
But the adulterated system of the Romish 
religion, is framed to cherish what it opposes 
— to encourage what it subdues — to license 
what it condemns. The religion of Christ 
gives the sinner strength to subdue these 
corruptions of his nature — the religion of 
Popery gives the sinner liberty to remain in 
them. It addresses itself to his passions — 
his inclinations — his fears. Is it easier to 
do penance than to repent? — this religion 
puts the one for the other. Is it easier to 


152 MY ADVENTURES 

purchase an indulgence than to forsake sin ? 
— this religion says, give your money and 
continue in sin. Is it easier to whisper the 
partially told tale of misdoing in the ear of a 
fellow creature, and to obtain from his lips 
the large promise of pardon from on high, than 
to pour out the depths of a deceitful heart 
before the holy, pure, eternal Jehovah, and 
humbly, and earnestly, patiently and repeat- 
edly, to supplicate pardon as an act of sov- 
ereign mercy — not for any satisfaction we 
can make for sin, but through the satisfaction 
of the Redeemer ? — this religion says, con- 
fess and receive absolution. Is it easier to 
give a little money to the church when the 
soul of some beloved one is gone, than to 
watch, and labour, and pray for their spiritual 
good — to risk offending them, or to forfeit 
their love while they tabernacled in the land 
of hope? — this religion says, give your 
worldly goods in masses^ for the souls of your 
friends, and the prayers of the church will 
effect their salvation.’ 

‘ Yon think then that prayers for the de- 
parted are of no avail ?’ said Devereux. 

‘ None : the soul’s everlasting state is irre- 
vocably fixed the moment it takes its flight 
from the body.’ 

‘ You Protestants do not believe in Purga- 
tory,’ he thoughtfully rejoined. 

‘ Soul deluding error !’ exclaimed Charles. 
‘ Devereux, if you fall to-morrow — if you 


IN PORTUGAL. 153 

died to-night, do you believe your soul would 
enter Pnrgatory ?’ 

‘ I do not think I am good enough for hea- 
ven,’ said poor Devereux, hesitatingly. 

‘ Nor bad enough to be quite a cast away, 
I suppose,’ Courtenay remarked with a sort 
of smile, that showed as if some degree of 
sympathy of feeling existed between him and 
Devereux. 

‘ Now here is a staunch Catholic, and here 
(in his own ideas at least) a good Protestant,’ 
said Charles, laying a hand on a shoulder of 
each — ‘ and yet I dare say, if- their religious 
sentiments and opinions were analyzed, the 
difference would be found to have existed in 
names more than realities. Oh ! if men could 
only be brought to cast their soul’s hope on 
the rock of their salvation — if they would 
look simply to the ^tenement of Christ — 
dwell solely on the all-sufficient merits of 
Christ, how would the errors of Protestantism 
and Romanism fall to the ground ; where 
would be self-righteousness and unbelief — 
the pride of working out our own salvation, 
and the fear of coming short in the procuring 
of it ? Where would be all the saviours that 
Protestants and Catholics have made for 
themselves ; their good works — their moral- 
ity — their good intentions — their discharge 
of relative duties — their prayers and their 
penances — their mortifications and confes- 


154 


MY ADVENTURES 


sions — and pilgrimages and alms-giving — 
and fastings and seclusions 

‘When revealed religion is predominant, 
natural religion sinks,’ said I, ‘ and these 
things undoubtedly do not belong to the form- 
er, for they are named only to be reprobated 
in scripture.’ 

‘ Heigh-ho !’ said Courtenay rising, ‘ you 
three may argue here all night if you please, 
but 1 will prepare better for the march to- 
morrow.’ So saying, he stretched himself 
on the floor, and wrapped his cloak about 
him, as if composing himself to sleep. 

We sat a little longer conversing, but when 
I looked round again, the sinking blazes were 
dancing fitfully over the rough walls — the 
shepherd was asleep, his wolf dog crouched 
at his feet, and Courtenay, looking at our 
three figures closely grouped about the fire. 

‘ What ! not asleep yet ?’ I said. 

‘ Who could sleep while you are chatter- 
ing there like so many old women.’ 

‘ That is very good, Alick,’ said Charles ; 
‘ would the talking of three old women dis- 
turb sleep more effectually than all the noise 
you slept through last night?’ 

‘ Well, 1 suppose I was more inclined to 
sleep ; thought scares away sleep still more 
effectually than either species of disturbance.’ 

‘ And what thoughts scare your sleep now 
— poor Alick?’ 


IN PORTUGAL. 


155 


‘ Oh ! a man has always enough to think 
about these times.’ 

‘Well, 1 will follow your example, and ex- 
change conversation for thought.’ 

‘ Or for sleep rather !’ said Courtenay, 
looking at him as he folded himself in his 
cloak and lay down on the floor ; and so it 
was, for the poor fellow, who was both tired 
and sleepy, after a few minutes silent devo- 
tion wafe in sound and calm repose. 

Devereux and I agreed to maintain our 
places longer, and we soon got on a subject 
that kept us in them later than we had intended. 
Our native country was the theme, its politi- 
cal and moral evils ; we each felt and deplor- 
ed them, for we were Irishmen in heart — in 
affection as well as in name. Devereux al- 
leged the former evil, and lamented it, but he 
was inclined to deny, or at least dispute the 
latter : with young Fitzmorris who had no 
acquaintance with Ireland, he would proba- 
bly have denied a point, which with me he 
disputed and finally conceded. He granted 
at length, that the religion of our poor coun- 
trymen tended to depress their national char- 
acter, not in a political but moral point of 
view r for the ignorance in which it is the in- 
terest of the Romish priests to keep them, is 
attended by its usual concomitants, indolence, 
uncleanliness, debasing superstitions, and the 
commission of crime ; but still be wished to 
refute the assertion he had heard me former- 


156 


MY AOTENTURES 


ly make respecting the enormous assumption 
of power by the Romish priests of Ireland. 
My mind glanced back in painful retrospec- 
tion ; an instance of that undue influence oc- 
curred to me, and it forced a groan from my 
heart. Poor Amy ! — at last that w^ord is 
written, which in all the course of my ram- 
bling retrospections I could never force my 
pen to write. Yes, poor Amy, thy wrongs, 
thy trials, thy meek endurance rose u^ before 
me, and I felt — - — No, such feelings cannot 
be told.. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Amy Fitzgerald was the daughter of a 
man of property and respectability in a re- 
mote part of Ireland. Her mother and mine 
were bosom friends, companions, and near 
relatives : the two former they continued un- 
til that divider of so many girlish companion- 
ships, marriage, parted them. The one was 
married to a retired country clergyman, the 
other to a Roman Catholic gentleman of for- 
tune, 

Mr. Fitzgerald, though bearing the appella- 
tion of Christian, was in fact an unbeliever 
in all religions ; he would as soon have mar* 


IN PORTUGAL. 


157 


ried a Jewess, or a Mahometan as he did a 
Protestant ; yet pride, or some other motive 
made him insist on having his children 
brought up in the Catholic faith. His wife 
readily assented : she knew of little difference, 
except in form, between both religions, and 
she thought one was as good as another ; so 
that, though she remained a nominal Protes- 
tant herself, she felt no uneasiness at her 
children being Roman Catholics. 

She had moved on quietly and happily the 
smooth-flowing eighteen years of her unmar- 
ried life — uniting a pleasing person with a 
sweet and amiable disposition, and a mild af- 
fectionate manner : she knew few who did 
not love her, and few whom she did not love. 
Like some quiet little stream that flows on un- 
ruffled through a flowery pasture land, the 
eye that traced her gentle course could not 
foresee that it was to become troubled and 
turbid and agitated, to be impeded by rocks, 
and tossed by obstacles, that its calmness was 
to be lost, and its appearance changed. But 
so it was, and such is the fate of many anoth- 
er. She had married, and married she knew 
not what : she left her quiet home, her girlish 
happiness, her inno(;ent pursuits, — and she 
left them for heartlessness and contempt in 
the house of a husband. 

Mr. Fitzgerald’s friends did not like his un- 
assuming wife ; they could tell much that she 
was not ; they could sum up in one word 


158 


MY ADVENTURES 


what she was. She was not rich, she was not 
talented, she was not clever, brilliant, notable, 
or accomplished — and she was — a Protest- 
ant. He learnt to treat her with indifference, 
and soon with superciliousness : she encoun- 
tered trials and provocations, and she had not 
strength to oppose, or resolution to bear 
them, so she sunk into a quiescent state of 
feeling — neither seeming to suffer or enjoy, 
to hope or fear. 

Such was her state till religion brought its 
heavenly aid, its divine panacea for all human 
ills. My dear mother’s mind had lately been 
directed to the subject, and she strove to bring 
her friends to the enjoyment of it. For who 
will not tell a beloved and suffering friend of 
the physician who has healed all their mala- 
dies, who has recovered them from all their 
sicknesses } To poor Mrs. Fitzgerald she told 
not in vain that there was a balm in Gilead for 
her relief — that there was a physician there. 
She soon found the comforts of which she told 
her ; she felt the blessed supports of religion, 
and she learnt again to hope and to rejoice. 

But religion is still, in some way or other, 
attended by its cross : if not displayed in ex- 
ternal trials, it is felt in inward conflicts. If 
she recovered her capability of enjoying, she 
recovered also, keenly recovered her capa- 
bility of suffering. She had learnt to feel for 
immortal souls — and there was her husband : 
what though he was proud, unfeeling, over- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


159 


bearing — still he was her husband, — and 
Oh ! his state was awful ! And then her 
children — her darling little innocents — train- 
ing up as heirs of the same moral evils ; little 
victims, to be immolated at the shrine of 
their father’s pride : brought up to be — no 
matter what — so they bore the tide of 
Catholics. 

Now she felt the full misery of being united 
to one who was not of ‘ one heart and one 
way’ with herself, one with whom indeed there 
could be no union but in words. She was 
not the instructor of her children ; one by one, 
as they became capable of instruction, the 
priest, who lived in the house as chaplain to 
the family, became their teacher. Such was 
her state when Amy was born ; the last, the 
best beloved, the loveliest of all her children. 

At the time of her birth the state of the 
family, in regard to religion, might seem to 
resemble that of the people who cast away 
their old idolatry before they had received a 
new religion. Her father in some public 
business had taken the side which his priest 
wished him not to take ; but Mr. Fitzgerald 
not being then under much apprehension of 
the terrors of the church, nor in great sub- 
jection to priestly influence, stoutly main- 
tained a Britain’s prerogative of thinking and 
acting for himself: and so the indignant 
chaplain left his house, and retired to one in 
the neighbourhood, until this rebellious son of 


160 


MT ADVENTURES 


the church should be terrified into submis- 
sion : and when summoned to baptize the 
child, not only peremptorily refused for him- 
self, but for his whole brotherhood : thus con- 
demning this guiltless infant, (according to the 
Roman Catholic ideas) to punishment for the 
father’s fault, if it died unbaptized. But the 
Jesuit for once calculated wrong; he dealt 
with an infidel, one whom all the thunders of 
the Vatican could not appal. He knew that 
the priests would soon court the reconcilia- 
tion he would not seek, and so to give them 
an open proof of his indifference, although 
he thought it a matter of very little conse- 
quence whether the ceremony was performed 
at all or not, he sent for the Protestant rector, 
and little Amy was in form admitted a mem- 
ber of a church in which she was not to con- 
tinue. But her poor mother for the time for- 
got this ; she took her in her arms as a mem- 
ber of her own church, one who was to tread 
in her own steps, who might imbibe her own 
sentiments, and wept upon her baby face the 
tears of joy, of anxiety, thankfulness, and 
sorrow. Poor Amy ! the complexion of thy 
short life partook of the mingled nature of thy 
mother’s tears ! 

Amy became her mother’s idol ; she felt a 
new interest in her ; she watched with a pe- 
culiar emotion the dawning intellect, the at- 
tempts at speech, the tottering movements, 
that announced the commencement of her 


IN PORTUGAL. 


161 


labors for the weal of this her beloved, it 
seemed as if her only child — because to- 
wards it she thought she might hope to act 
more of the mother’s part. And. as her dar- 
ling grew up, she promised to be all, and 
more than all that her sanguine hopes antici- 
pated. To her mother’s person w’as united 
in Amy a far superior mind, a mind of no 
common stamp. She remained entirely un- 
der her mother’s eye — her pupil, her com- 
panion, her little store of all that made her 
life interesting — until she was more than ten 
years old ; she even went with her to church 
before she had been to chapel. In this Mrs. 
Fitzgerald’s heart misgave her ; it might be 
wrong, she feared she was transgressing : but 
in consequence of her husband’s quarrel with 
the priest — which had never yet been made 
up, though overtures were proffered from the 
other side — ■ there was not even the external 
semblance of religion maintained in the fami- 
ly ; and he had always left little Amy so en- 
tirely to herself, and seemed to care so little 
for her, that she believed, poor woman, he 
meant to do so always, and intended that as 
the child had been admitted by baptism into 
the Protestant church she should tacitly be 
allowed to remain in it ; and besides all this, 
as Mr, Fitzgerald w^ould not permit his family 
to go to the chapel, Amy must either go with 
her, or live like the rest without even a form 
of religion. 


162 


MY ADVENTURES 


But this time of peace was not always to 
be continued either to herself or her child. 

Mr. Fitzgerald met with some heavy pecu- 
niary losses ; and trials which effected even 
more than these : one calamity and one vexa- 
tion, be they in their nature great or little, fol- 
lowed hard on another. Among many others 
was the death of his second son, an amiable and 
pleasing lad — whose conciliating manners, 
and sweet disposition, rendered him a general 
favourite in a family, where uncontrolled 
tempers, and unregulated dispositions, occa- 
sioned much domestic unhappiness. His 
eldest son, though he possessed an unaccount- 
able influence with him, was disagreeable, 
haughty, and overbearing — and made him 
doubly feel the loss of his dutiful, gentle boy ; 
who had, nevertheless, appeared to enjoy less 
of his iavor when alive. These things weigh- 
ed heavily on his mind. He lost his health 
and spirits : his friends came about him, they 
reminded him of his conduct to the priests, 
and represented the indignities he had offered 
to the church. His servants took up the same 
story : if a horse was hurt, a sheep stolen, or 
a cow accidentally killed ; it was no wonder, 
when Father was so ill used. His con- 

science began to accuse him ; he thought 
there might be some truth in these things ; he 
began to think that heaven and hell, and a 
day of final retribution might not be tlie mere 
invention of priest-craft. He became un- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


16S 


easy, but that uneasiness did not drive him to 
the sinner’s Friend, did not send him to the 
word of God to inquire, ‘ Are these things 
so ?’ No, it drove him to the priests, to whom 
he believed aU power committed ; he made 
the submission he had long withheld, he hum- 
bly atoned for his fault, recalled the offended 
chaplain, loaded him with marks of favor, 
gave him illimitable power over his household, 
and passed gradually from infidelity to bigot- 
ry, from the contempt of all religions to the 
credence of all superstitutions. Now the 
spiritual state of the family was looked into, 
not to inquire whether they had become sen- 
sible of their condition as fallen yet responsi- 
ble creatures, whether they felt their need of 
a Saviour, and were looking unto Christ 
Jesus the only hope of sinners ; whether their 
hearts were renovated by divine grace, and 
their lives regulated by divine truth — but to 
inquire were they steady in the faith ; that 
is, were they blindly and obstinately persuad- 
ed that the Romish Church was the only true 
one, and steadily assured that beyond its pale 
there was no hope of salvation. 

In this faith there was found, with the ex- 
ception of Mrs. Fitzgerald, but one heretic, 
the young and happy Amy : she could not 
believe that her good, her pious mother, was 
a cast-away ; she had read that prohibited 
book, the word of God, which she possessed, 
and she knew that she sought for salvation in 


164 


MY adventures 


the way that it directed, and that it was writ- 
ten, ‘ He that believeth on me shall never 
perish.’ She thought, for her young judg- 
ment was untrammelled, not he that believeth 
in a priest, but he that believeth on the Son 
of God hath everlasting life, and so his as- 
surance that her mother’s soul, if she died 
the heretic she had lived, was lost, gave her 
only a feeling of abhorrence for him who ut- 
tered it ; and she felt not the shadow^ of un- 
easiness at dissenting from the creed of the 
infallible church. 

Arav was taken to chapel ; but first im- 
pressions are always most powerful ; to 
their influence, perhaps, some w'ould attribute 
the strong desire which she expressed to be 
allowed to attend in preference the services 
of the Protestant church ; to the impression 
which these simple services had made on an 
unprejudiced mind, they would ascribe per- 
haps the sensation of disgust which she felt 
at the multifarious and unmeaning ceremonies 
of Roman Catholic worship. 

Amy and her mother, in consequence of 
these heretical manifestations, w^ere separat- 
ed ; and all the efforts of the priest, and the 
authority of his patron, appeared to be de- 
voted to the task of rooting out the seeds of 
heresy from her young mind, and to the con- 
version of her mother to the Catholic faith, 
by making her life miserable while she re- 
mained in the Protestant. 


IN PORTUGAL. 


165 


They could not .bend her principles, but 
they broke her heart ; she died when Amy 
was about sixteen, and bequeathed to her be- 
loved girl her Bible and her sorrows. 

Before her death, Mrs. Fitzgerald wrote to 
my mother, requesting her when it was over 
to invite poor Amy to her house : the invita- 
tion was accordingly sent ; and Mr. Fitzger- 
ald, to whose conscience his daughter’s look 
of uncotnplaining, deep-seated sorrow, con- 
veyed a silent, but a stinging reproach, ac- 
cepted it for her, thinking it would be a re- 
lief to the rest of the family lo have the poor, 
mourning, disconsolate-looking thing taken 
away, till her first grief was over. 

She came to us a mourner in garb and in 
heart; I was prepared to pity, but not to ad- 
mire her : yet, I have since seen people of 
different lands and different ranks, and never 
one whose appearance was more irresistibly 
engaging, more calculated to produce an in- 
stantaneous interest in the beholder’s mind. 
The quiet gracefulness of her manner and 
person, the calm thoughtfulness of her young 
face, the expression of seriousness that was 
in the eyes, (whose sweet intelligence 1 never 
saw those that approached to, except in 
Charles Fitzmorris) seemed to indicate the 
complexion of the life that was before her, 
and the expressions so prematurely settled, 
inspired a wish to know the circumstances 
that had so early stamped their impress on 
15 


166 


MY ADVENTURES 


that youthful brow. Yet there was nothing 
of gloom, little even of sorrow in her look ; 
nor was her appearance faded and care- 
worn ; the soft clear paleness of her cheek 
was the hue of nature ; and nature too, had 
stamped those prognosticating characters that 
commanded so deep an interest. 

Amy was still nominally a Roman Catho- 
lic ; but she was so only because she knew 
she must be so ; her mother’s religion was the 
religion of her heart ; her Bible was the guide 
of her life. While with us she attended con- 
stantly my father’s church, and she enjoyed 
and prized the season of mental liberty. In 
our family, she did not, I regret to say, meet 
so many religious advantages as she might 
have expected, in coming to one, whose 
members all professed the same faith ; but I 
have before hinted there were errors among 
us. While professing the Scripture doctrine 
of salvation, through faith, there appeared in 
general too little practical remembrance of 
the Apostle’s charge, ‘ work out your own 
salvation with fear and trembling ; for it is 
God that worketh in you.’ Through the 
dread of legality, they overlooked the cir- 
cumspection that Christians are called to 
maintain, grounding an enormous error on a 
divine truth ; we (for in this I can include 
myself) appeared to think, that because 
Christ had done all, we need do nothing. 
Faith, it is said, cannot be inoperative; I be- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


167 


lieve it, but faith needs to be strengthened, 
to be renewed ; if its daily bread be not 
sought, if the means of cherishing and en- 
livening it be neglected, faith will not be ac- 
tive. At least, I cannot otherwise account 
for the state of things in our house : when re- 
ligion was discussed, and doctrines examined, 
we were all Bible Christians ; but when we 
ourselves were examined by our Lord’s crite- 
rion, ‘ by their fruits ye shall know them,’ 
the answer at best was doubtful. 

I do not say that doubt even existed in my 
case ; no, not even charity, the blind, perhaps 
erring, charity of my poor Amy could main- 
tain it there. I knew nothing of religion but 
what I heard from others ; I believed it to be 
right and necessary ; and the doctrines that 
appeared to my benighted mind, which, while 
proudly saying, ‘ I see, I see,’ was enveloped 
in Egyptian night, to afford a laxity of moral 
practice, were readily adopted. I lived the 
child of wilful error ; I could talk of faith ; 
I could say this duty is legal — this obser- 
vance is pharisaiacal — this abstinence from 
the gratification we desire, is superstitious. 

Instead of imbibing our errors, Amy soon 
detected them, and I am sure some of us at 
least, will for ever have cause to bless the day 
she came among us. 

My dear sister Emma possessed a kindred 
mind with her ; Emma had always been my 
favourite 5 yet I think 1 loved her better when 


168 


MY ADVENTURES 


she became Amy’s. They rest now beneath 
the same white stone in my father’s church- 
yard. Well, let this pass. 

Amy’s stay with us was protracted far be- 
yond what we had any expectation of ; in- 
deed it appeared that she was forgotten at 
home. It was while she was with us that I 
received my commission, and prepared to 
join my regiment, then stationed in Ireland. 
Poor girl ! she appeared to know so much 
more of the world than 1 did, because she 
knew the human heart better, that 1 listened 
to her with that attention which experience 
claims from inexperience : and still, though 
now, alas ! I know the world, we both then 
knew little of : still, still I bless thee Amy — 
thy counsels preserved me from many a dan- 
ger which was not anticipated by you ; and 
the recollection of thy love, thy favourable, 
Oh ! too favourable opinion of one so un- 
worthy of thy regard, made me desire to be 
better than I was, and restrained me from be- 
coming worse. Well, thou art gone ! But 
while I write, thy mild, beseeching eye is 
beaming on me, though I am all alone — thy 
soft accents fall on my ear, though no sound 
is stirring near me. Farewell ! again, until I 
join thy freed spirit in realms, where perse- 
cution, and sorrow, and injury, and reproach, 
cannot harm thee, — - in realms where 

‘ Not a w.ave of troiil)le rolls 

Across thy peac^fut breast 0 


IN PORTUGAL. 


169 


My best loved sister, my dear gentle Em- 
ma, fell into a decline shortly after I left 
home ; she lingered out some painful months ; 
but her soul was daily renewing its strength, 
while her poor outward frame, the frame 
that was so pleasant to our eyes, decayed, day 
by day. Her cousin was her constant at- 
tendant, her greatest earthly support ; they 
were a mutual benefit to each other, building 
each other up in their most holy faith, and 
both labouring, ‘ that whether living or dying, 
they might be accepted together.’ And when 
Emma died, while Amy hung over and cried 
‘ alas ! my sister i my soul is distressed for 
thee !’ she prayed a prayer that soon was an- 
swered, ‘ Let me die the death of the right- 
eous, and let my last end be like her’s !’ 

Like a wild bull in a net, is the natural 
man in affliction ; and such was 1 : in the 
strife of human passions, the storm of rebel- 
lion, the chafing disappointed self-will, who 
can ‘ hear the rod, and who hath appointed 
it ?’ Hardly could I hear, when 1 missed the 
voice and the smile of the dear gentle girl, 
who always ran to welcome me ; the accents 
that reminded me in tones of softest affection, 
of the danger of setting our hopes and our 
love too strongly on any earthly object. 
Poor Amy ! your words were prophetic, ‘ be- 
lieve me, Henry, as long as you do so, you 
will be laying up a store of misery for your- 


170 


MY ADVENTURES 


self.’ Yes, Amy, he who now writes your 
words feels their truth. 

For some time after Emma’s death, the 
world lost its charms; I thought less of its 
hopes, its prospects, its illusive pleasures, and 
more of the heaven where she was gone. But 
I did not relish a life of preparation for that 
heaven ; and so, as sorrow lost its poignancy, 
this world again rose, and the next disap- 
peared. I again laid schemes of earthly hap- 
piness, dreamed gay dreams of bliss, and for- 
got the lesson 1 had just began to learn, even 
that ‘ man is vanity, and all his work a thing 
of nought, for his expectation perisheth, and 
his hope faileth, and he himself shall die in 
like manner.’ 

A mandate from home recalled Amy to her 
father’s house, spon after poor Emma’s death ; 
and this was the commencement of my anx- 
ieties : 1 could not see her, could not even 
write to her ; but after some time, my moth- 
er got a letter from her, entreating her to re- 
ceive her, to give her an asylum. She came 
back, looking the spectre of herself. She 
only told us the general causes of her return ; 
she had renounced the Roman Catholic re- 
ligion. Her eldest brother had always treat- 
ed her cruelly ; her father was instigated by 
superstition to the same conduct — both were 
governed and directed by priests : poor Amy 
had no one to assist, no one to uphold her.; 
she was, in short an outcast ; but she had lit- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


171 


tie hope of being allowed to remain long in 
the asylum she had chosen. 

A division of my regiment was then quar- 
tered in a country town, about fifteen miles 
from my father’s house ; I was, of course, of- 
ten there. One evening Amy received a let- 
ter, which, from the paleness it spread over 
her face, and the sickening sensation it seem- 
ed to give her, conveyed no pleasing intelli- 
gence. She got up to leave the room, but 
walked so unsteadily I gave her my arm, and 
entreated her to tell me the cause of her agi- 
tation. ‘ J do not wish to appear reserved 
with you, Henry,’ she said, in a voice of sor- 
row that thrilled to my heart, ‘ but do not ask 
me this evening.’ 1 was to return to my 
quarters at an early hour next morning, I re- 
minded her of this, and she promised to 
see me before I went. 

As 1 came out of my room the next morn- 
ing, the woman who attended her, opened the 
door of hers to call her as she had been de- 
sired : she started back exclaiming, ‘ Oh I 
Mr. Henry, what is the matter ?’ What, I 
echoed impatiently, * Oh ! Sir, Miss Fitzger- 
ald.’ I started to the door, Amy was re- 
clining back in a large chair ; on a table be- 
fore her was a Bible, a hymn book, a sheet 
of paper, and a pencil ; her head was on the 
back of the chair, her dress unchanged from 
the evening before, and her face so colorless, 
I thought — no 1 did not think at all — 1 


172 


Mr ADVENTURES 


sprang towards her so suddenly, the horrid 
thought had not time to form : she was not, 
however, dead, she was only asleep ; she 
started up at the noise I made, the comb drop- 
ped out ol' her hair, and it fell over her shoul- 
ders as she rose up. She smiled at our 
alarm, and owned that she had not lain down 
all night. ‘ I knew I could not sleep,’ she 
said with a countenance and voice of calm 
tranquinity, as she gathered up her glossy 
hair. ‘ But a few minutes ago I fell into a 
slumber, because my mind was then compos- 
ed. Go to the parlour, Henry, and 1 will 
follow you, or let us walk round the lawn, it 
will be more refreshing this fine morning.’ 

Dear girl ! — that was the last time we 
walked there, over that path which I trod 
not long since ; and that was the last time we 
sat in that now ruined bower where you and 
Emma often chatted to me through many a 
summer’s evening ! 

I did not leave the glebe so early as I in- 
tended, and when I did leave it, I went san- 
guinely anticipating the removal of some few 
obstacles that stood in the way of my attain- 
ment of the earthly happiness I coveted. 
But these obstacles appeared almost as nothing 
when viewed in the glass that hope presented. 
‘ And then, Amy,’ I said, spurring on my 
horse as ray quarters appeared in sight, ‘ and 

then Amy we part no more V No more 

On this side of eternity will men thus speak ; 


IN PORTUGAL. 


173 


no more sufferings, no more sorrows, no more 
partings. Ah ! no ! it is not here, though 
our cup may seem already full to the brim, 
that we can say no more. 

Still adverse circumstances arose, and my 
mind was kept anxious, and my spirits at 
times depressed. That living faith that sup- 
ported a weak timid girl in many more trials, 
was not mine ; that belief in the sure promise 
of the Most High, that he who trusts in Him 
shall not want any good thing, was not then 
impressed on my mind ; it was on hers, and 
that which the God she trusted in saw good 
for her, was given to her. 

That ball, to which Courtenay alluded, was 
the one from which J was summoned to her 
sick bed. The day light was dawning when 
1 entered her room ; the shutters were open, 
but the curtains still drawn ; the gray light of 
morning they admitted, blended with that of 
the still burning watchlight, cast a shade of 
sombreness, that, joined with the stillness, the 
deep repose that reigned throughout the house 
and in the room, made me feel at first as if 
hurried in the transition of a dream from such 
a scene of mirth, and light, and noise, and 
brilliancy, as that 1 had left, to one that spoke 
of awe and apprehension, and the dread of 
coming sorrow. 

Amy had been tossing on a feverish pillow, 
but just before 1 came in she awoke from a 
few minutes sleep that had refreshed her ; 

16 


174 


MY ADVENTURES 


she felt herself belter, and, noticing my dress 
-=-all travel-soiled as it was, still bearing evi- 
dence that I had hurried from company to 
see her, for 1 had flung myself on my horse 
as I was, and rode, 1 knew not how, — she 
held out her hand to me, apologizing for hav- 
ing sent for me. 

‘ The summons that calls me to your side 
will never need an apology, Amy,’ 1 said, as 
1 bent over her burning hand. 

I learnt that her father and brother had 
been at the glebe, that they had had a violent 
argument, if argument is not a misapplied 
Word ; and Amy was to have been taken 
away, had not the agitation she was thrown 
into ruptured a blood vessel, under the con- 
sequences of which she now suffered. I staid 
with her as long as 1 could ; 1 thought of a 
thousand plans for her and myself, but I fear- 
ed to mention them all ; a few I did, and she 
smiled at some, shook her head at others, and 
doubted the efficiency of all. I left her to 
obtain leave from our commanding officer to 
remain at the glebe for a short time ; it could 
not be granted for two or three days ; at the 
end of that time 1 hurried, back. 

My eldest sister met me on the stairs ; she 
gave me her hand wiilj?)ut saying a word, 
* Amy !’ was all that 1 could utter. 

‘She has been wishing for you.’ 

• Can 1 see her ?’ 

‘Yes, come on.’ 


IN PORTUGAL. 


175 


I was leaning against the balustrade ; she 
went on and opened the door, 1 followed her 
with a violent effort to it, but there 1 stopped. 
Amy’s bed was opposite to it ; she was raised 
a little up by pillows ; high upon each cheek 
was a deep hectic spot, burning there in 
striking contrast to the paleness that was be- 
neath, and the snowy brow above them. 
Neither of us spoke. I could not, and feel- 
ing for me affected her. At last’ she said in 
her own soft tone of affection, ‘ Henry.’ 1 
turned away, and flung out of the room ; and 
when my sister and my eldest brother follow- 
ed me, I was pacing like a mad-man up and 
down the lobby ; I heard not one word they 
said, as they followed me back and forwards 
in all my impatient turns, laying each a hand 
on my arms, that were endeavouring to free 
themselves from the restraint : still the wish 
of getting rid of them, made me rush back 
to Amy’s room ; I heard her voice, and be- 
came more rational. 

That night I was summoned to her bed- 
side ; I had not lain down, though the first 
streaks of day were breaking, and 1 was soon 
with her. My sisters and my mother were 
standing round her bed ; they drew back to 
let me advance ; Amy motioned with her 
hand to them to do so, and sent an anxious 
look across the room, as I came over to her. 
I threw myself on my knees beside her, my 
damp forehead was leaning jupon her hand. 


176 


MY ADVENTURES 


‘ Henry,’ she said faintly, and from lime 
to time pausing, and collecting her hreath to 
go on, ‘ I had a great deal to say to you ; I 
cannot say it now — think of Amy — think 
of all she has said — think of meeting her in 
heaven : but, oh !’ she said with more anima- 
tion, as if a sudden recollection crossed her, 

‘ oh ! let not that hope be all, or be the chief 
one that makes you look forward to heaven. 
Henry, examine your heart more — ^be sure 
that you have an interest in the Redeemer — 
oh ! do not deceive your own soul ; if you 
love him, keep his commandments — hate 
sin, and love holiness, not because you love 
it in your sinful fellow-creatures, but because 
He is holy.’ She paused, and drawing her 
hand from my grasp, put it under her pillow, 
and took out a book, which she put into mine, 
holding both between her’s, and then a few 
large tears rolled quickly down her face, the 
hectic colour faded for a moment ; but when 
she exerted herself to speak, it returned 
again, and she rapidly went on. 

‘ Henry, dear Henry, this little volume is 
all the token that will be left you of your poor 
Amy’s affection ; oh ! let it never, never cease 
to be your companion, your guide, your coun- 
sellor : better, a thousand limes better, will it 
be than all that she ever hoped to be, than all 
she ever could have been.’ She looked the 
unutterable farewell, that she could not speak, 
that 1 could not listen to, and slowly drawing 


IN PORTUGAL. 


177 


off her sweet soft eyes from mine, she raised 

them upward while she prayed . No — 

that prayer shall not he breathed on earth 
again — but if, through grace, I meet thee, 
Amy, before the throne, then shalt thou know 
thy prayer was heard and answered. 

Enough of this, the retrospections that har- 
row up the soul may not be detailed. 

1 saw poor Amy laid in the grave where 
Emma was laid before her, and 1 saw a plain 
white stone, emblematic in its hue of those it 

covered, placed over all . But this must 

not be, I have said 1 would say no more. 

It was when I rejoined my regiment, after 
a dangerous fever, that I first felt Courtenay’s 
real worth. He had now attained greater 
worldly prosperity, and perhaps, too, greater 
real happiness than he had ever anticipated : 
he was married to the woman of his choice, 
and he was possessed of a larger property 
than he could ever have expected. Yet pros- 
perity — a rare instance — had neither hard- 
ened his heart, nor raised his selfesteem. 
He was still the same affable, kind, open- 
hearted man that he had been when he pos- 
sessed no temporal distinctions above the 
poorest officer in the regiment. His feeling 
mind and manly disposition saved me many 
a pang which the roughness or impertinence 
of others might have given me : he forbore 
to pry into the cause of the deep and singular 
dejection that made me appear among my 


178 


MY ADVENTURES 


former friends as transformed into another 
man ; but he delicately and kindly sympathiz- 
ed with the wounded feelings he was not told 
of, and bore with the irritability he could not 
account for. Louisa, too, for his sake seem- 
ed to feel an interest in me, and the delicate 
attentions I met from her, 1 received as com- 
ing from him. Poor fellow ! as he walked by 
my side the morning after the conversation had 
past which gave rise to these retrospections, 
1 felt that while such friends were left to me 
as some of those with whom I then marched, 
1 was still more favored than 1 deserved to be. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A FEW evenings previous to the battle of 
Salamanca, Courtenay and 1 had been en- 
gaged in attending to our division : when our 
business was done, J remarked that he ap- 
peared unusually serious. He did not deny 
the charge, for the smile that moved round his 
mouth as I spoke, amounted even to melan- 
choly. 

‘ I was thinking of my poor wife, Travers- 
ton. It is a thought of her that makes me 


IN PORTUGAL. 179 

feel life precious even to myself; I would 
sj)are her — poor soul — if I could.’ 

‘ Do you remember the commission you 
gave me, Courtenay, on the Sierra de Busa- 
CO?’ I spoke with a smile to remind him of 
the falsity of his former forebodings. 

‘ 1 do,’ he gravely replied ; ‘ and I ask you, 
again, if it is in your power to serve my poor 
Louisa after my death to remember and do 
it.’ 

‘ If I had any one to recommend to your 
care, Courtenay, I might as well do so, as you 
to mine. The chance of war soldiers tell us 
is equal.’ 

‘ Perhaps so : but I feel as if I will not have 
to give a sigh for you.' 

‘ Nor, 1 trust, will I for you, Courte’nay ; 
there is not a friend I would grudge more to 
lose than yourself.’ 

‘ I believe on some accounts you would 
almost rather see poor Charles Fitzmorris laid 
low than me, Traverston?’ 

‘ Fitzmorris,’ I repeated, while balancing 
in my mind the scale of preference — ‘Dear 
Charles, what would I do without him ? — but 

Courtenay, my old my valued friend, ’ I 

broke off the disagreeable decision that I could 
not make, and not knowing the reasons that he 
alluded to, said hastily, ‘ Why ?’ 

‘ Because you believe him better prepared 
for death.’ 


180 


MY ADVENTURES 


I was surprised at the seriousness of the 
reply. 

‘ I do, Courtenay. I believe, though I have 
reason, good reason to regard, to esteem, to 
love you as a tried faithful friend, an endear- 
ed companion, still I believe that Charles 
Fitzmorris is better prepared to stand before 
his God.’ 

Courtenay looked very grave, and when he 
spoke it was thoughtfully. 

‘ There are such a variety of religious opin- 
ions and creeds in the world, they clash so 
together, that a man can hardly ever know 
whether he is right or wrong.’ 

^ My dear Courtenay, the word of God is an 
infallible guide — it points out the one sure 
mode of salvation appointed for all mankind, 
who will accept of it ; if we are right on that 
point, what matters it how much we differ on 
the several iotas of religious belief ?’ 

‘ Perhaps, Traverston, I should be ashamed 
to acknowledge that I do not possess that in- 
fallible guide : I,’ he hesitated a little, and 
added, ‘ I have no Bible ; had I asked poor 
Louisa for her’s, she would have thought my 
death-warrant sealed ; and 1 own, if I had 
one, I should hQ glad to read it — I should 
wish to learn something more of a future 
world before — indeed I have long felt at 
times a desire to do so, but something held me 
back from confessing this, and I diverted my 
mind from the subject 5 but now I feel as if I 


IN PORTUGAL. 


181 


could willingly spend this night in studying 
the too long neglected book, of which I have 
so often heard.’ He looked upwards as he 
spoke, and feeling, perhaps, awful feeling, 
gave a deeper shade to his dark eye, as he 
murmured in a low voice, ‘ Oh, God forgive 
me !’ I put my hand into my breast-pocket, 
and drew out my now rightly valued book : I 
did not now feel, as I had done on a former 
occasion, that it was kept there as a sort of 
talisman ; I had, through mercy, learned to 
value it for its oim, still more than for the 
giver’s sake j and I now read it with delight, 
and applied to it, I trust, as a humble inquirer 
after eternal happiness. 

‘ Courtenay, I will lend you this, but with 
ona proviso ; you must give it to me before 
we engage ; you will think it superstitious, but 
I could not go into battle without it; 1 never 
have (lone so, I could not risk its loss ; if I 
were wounded I should like to have it about 
me ; and if I were killed — I cannot let go a 
foolish sort of a wish — that it should be 
buried with me.’ 

‘ I promise you, you shall have it, whatever 
your wishes may be,’ said Courtenay, taking 
it from my hand ; but I caught the book, and 
opening it, took out of the blank leaves a long 
silken lock of dark brown hair, and folding it 
in a letter, put it into my breast, returning him 
the book. 


182 


MY ADVENTURES 


Courtenay did not speak to me again till 
we were forming in order of battle ; then com- 
ing lip to me, he put the book 1 had lent him 
into my hand, and said, 

‘Ti •aversion, if 1 fall to-day, I shall have 
cause, I trust, to bless you throughout eternity 
for this precious loan. It has taught me all 
that 1 wanted most to know, all that I long 
refused to learn ; it has taught me that I am 
a sinner, and, blessed be God, it has pointed 
me to a Saviour.’ 1 grasped his hand with a 
thrill of joy, — Oh ! such joy as might impart 
to human bosoms some idea of the joy that is 
‘ in the presence of the angels of God over 
one sinner that repenteth.’ 

The fight was done — the bloody well- 
fought field was won, and 1 past among the 
ranks of wounded, dead, and dying to over- 
see the removal of the former. Fearful every 
moment of meeting some well-known face, of 
hearing the heart-rending accents of some 
well-known voice, 1 passed on, till a manly, 

handsome figure caught my eye. Oli ! it 

was a moment of exquisite agony ! No, the 
soldier, even in the seat of war may be pre- 
pared for the death of his comrades, his ac- 
quaintances, but for that of his bosom friend 
— one who is a brother to him — no, he is 
not, he cannot. Courtenay, when I bent over 
you, I felt 1 was not familiar with death and 
sorrow ! But he was not gone, he unclosed 
his darkened eye, those fine manly features 


IN PORTUGAL. 


183 


were relumined with the faint streaks of life, 
he pressed my hand, and collecting his breath, 
murmured, ‘ My friend I was right — my God 
was merciful — not unwarned — not unpre- 
pared — farewell, we shall meet, — my wife, 
my Louisa; Oh ! Traverston tell her — tell 
her, I renounced my pride — tell her, the 
Redeemer’s love alone was my support in 
death — tell her, to that love I commit her 
when her husband is no more. 1 have been 
unto her in the stead of God — but Oh ! tell 
her to seek him when she is in trouble — tell 

her’ his voice grew very husky, he raised 

himself slightly, and gathered his breath to 
add with a strong effort, ‘ Tell her to call on 
the God of the widow and the fatherless.’ 
With that last effort his strength failed ! one 
word more passed his lips, it was the cry of 
Peter — ‘ Lord save me!’ — and his eye-lids 
sunk heavily down, his lip and limbs slightly 
quivered, and all was still. 

Charles Fitzmorris and I, assisted by a 
brother officer, who was attached to him, 
buried Courtenay on the spot where he fell. 
He rests under his grassy mound, and the 
wild flowers spring from the turf that was 
saturated with his valiant blood. Strip the 
soldier’s death of the ray of glory that the 
ideas of men ding around it ; and if we know 
nothing of their latter end but that they died 
in the shock and hurry of fight, the believer 
in an after existence will tread with a feeling 


184 


MY ADVENTURES 


of double awe over the field whose scattered 
mounds, and little hillocks mark out the 
graves which entomb the warriors’ dust, and 
shrink from the question to which he can give 
no answer, ‘ Where rest the spirits that erst 
tenanted that clay ?’ But Fitzmorris, his son, 
and myself, in a solemn hour, knelt around 
that new-made grave, and on a field of blood 
and slaughter, sent up a thanksgiving unto 
Him who had redeemed a soul by His blood, 
and given our friend to be a partaker with 
those who were ‘ made kings and priests un- 
to God for ever.’ And thus we close a sol- 
dier’s funeral rites : and rare though such a 
closing might be, thus we wished that our’s 
might close too. 

Courtenay, farewell! I may wander far and 
wide through this bleak world before I meet 
your fellow : and though it may be allotted 
me to drop a tear over many a tomb as I go, 
never will a sincerer one fall on a grave of 
marble or of clay, than that which moistened 
the earth under which we left you I 

My health had been for some time suffer- 
ing considerably ; after my poor friend’s death 
it failed me so much, that I was unfit for ser- 
vice, and the medical surgeon ordered me to 
Lisbon. 1 accompanied a Portuguese de- 
tachment that was escorting prisoners, and 
made the journey on horseback without any 
difficulty. 


IN PORTUGAL, 


185 


The melancholy scenes that constantly met 
my view as I journeyed quietly through the 
countries that had been ravaged by war, and 
contemplated at my leisure the traces of armies 
rolling by, the desolated aspect of convents, 
and churches, and houses : trampled vine- 
yards, uncultivated fields, uprooted gardens, 
villages destroyed, and towns in ashes — all 
these things, with the recollection of one 
friend it had torn from my side, and the mis- 
ery it brought to another, made me hate war ; 
and I think 1 should not have felt regret then 
at hearing that my sword was to rust in its 
sheath for ever. Yes ; to a man of thought, 
of feeling, of Christian principle, the scenes 
of war must be hateful. And then the thought 
of meeting poor Louisa ; I did not know 
whether she was yet acquainted with her hus- 
band’s fate; I rather thought not, and I 
dreaded to see her. 

As soon as I reached Lisbon, however, I 
went to her house. At the sound of my voice, 
which she instantly recognized, she had sprung 
into the centre of the floor, and there she still 
stood when I came in, interrogating me only 
by her full-opened, speaking eye. Her look, 
so full of alarm, of wild apprehension, made 
me believe that she knew at least her husband 
had been wounded, and 1 did not attempt an 
appearance that might mislead her. She fix- 
ed that wild, penetrating glance on me for 


186 


MY ADVENTURES 


about half a minute, and then with a short 
piercing shriek, dropped upon the floor. 

I lifted her up ; and when she found the 
power of speech, I felt her wild, hurried ques- 
tion, pierce my heart — ‘ Have you taken care 
of him ?’ ‘ He was in the hands of his God,’ 

J replied. 

‘ Was /’ she screamed, and burst into a 
fearful hysteric laugh. 

Oh ! of all the painful duties a Christian is 
ever called to perform, one of the most dis- 
tressing is to address the rebellious child of 
nature in the first delirium of grief ! There is 
a joy in visiting the house of chastened mourn- 
ing, in sympathizing with the afflicted Chris- 
tian, you rejoice in your grief ; but when you 
hear a poor impotent child of earth arraign 
the attributes of the Almighty, refuse sub- 
mission to his wdll, and call down his ven- 
geance, by refusing to see or acknowledge his 
mercy, where reproof would be cruel, yet 
you feel it might be salutary ; where you know 
not how to speak comfort, or how to admin- 
ister relief, because you both view every thing 
through a different medium. Oh ! this is a 
trial of feelings ! 

Poor Louisa ! your’s was the bitterness of 
unsubdued, unresigned sorrow : there was, 
alas ! no hope in it : it partook most largely 
of the ‘ sorrow that worketh death and like 
many another victim to its deadly influence, 
you might have sunk into that morbid insen- 


IN PORTUGAL. 


187 


sibility, that listless wretchedness which preys 
on the heart, and withers up all its joyous and 
kindly feeling, that has soured many a cheer- 
ful temper, and changed many a warm dis- 
position, that has blighted the young cheek of 
beauty, and plunged the gay, the young, the 
careless, into an early tomb. Oh ! happy 
they, who in the hour of sorrow can feel there 
is One who in all their affliction is afflicted, 
who doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the 
children of men ! Yes, I now can say all this 
— but no more ; could such another trial now 
befall me, 1 might yield no evidence to the 
truth of my own words — yet their truth still 
remaineth ; the conduct of an erring, sinful 
mortal, cannot impeach it ; He can give abil- 
ity to whom he will to glorify him even in the 
fires. 

I could not speak to Louisa, could not rea- 
son with her, could not comfort her — yet I 
could not leave her. My own health required 
attention, but she required it more ; day after 
day I was with her, and day after day I 
brought no hope. In the course of something 
more than a week, I was unable to leave my 
room ; 1 sent to her to say so ; and to my sur- 
prise, she entered it soon after : she came up 
to me looking so agitated, so uneasy. ‘ Trav- 
erston, I suppose 1 have killed you too,’ was 
her wild address. 1 smiled. ‘ Gh ! my hus- 
band’s friend,’ she exclaimed, ‘ the friend he 


188 


MY ADVENTURES 


valued, who knew how to value him — if you 
die now ! Oh ! my selfishness — my cruelty !’ 

In vain I answered I was not really ill ! she 
would not be persuaded of it. Poor thing ! 
it was, I am sure, a fortunate illness for her; 
and it gave me a proof how some people, 
especially women, can rouse themselves from 
the deepest abandonment of sorrow, and the 
indulgence of apparently selfish feelings, when 
there is a call on them for exertion. 

When I was out of danger, Louisa did not 
resume the wildness of her grief ; but it was 
deeply and silently cherished. While 1 re- 
mained an invalid, we often sat together, and 
conversed on interesting subjects with calm- 
ness ; and as soon as 1 was able to go out, my 
first business was to secure her a passage to 
England, to commit her and her child to the 
care of an officer who was returning there, 
and to see her a living monument of wo, as- 
cend the vessel’s side that was to bear her 
from the land of her sorrows. 

I held the child in my arms, while she and 
its attendant went on board : the little thing 
looked about it in amazement at all the strange 
sights and sounds that the harbour presented ; 
and fixing its inquiring eye on the coloured 
flag that streamed in the breeze, it stretched 
out its arras, and laughed and crowed with 
glee. I thought of the day I had seen it in 
its poor father’s arms ; I clasped Courtenay’s 
child to my breast — too roughly 1 believe, for 


IN PORTUGAL. 


189 


it cried, and its cry brought back its mother 
to take it from my arms ; I put it into her’s ; 
I could only say, ‘ God bless you !’ and I 
watched the vessel moving slowly away. 

At the return of spring, I again joined my 
regiment ; the army had retreated to the fron- 
tiers while [ was invalided ; but now it again 
took the field, and we were soon after en- 
camped among the Pyrenees, and the French 
army driven before us through their defiles, 
and across the Bidassoa into the confines of 
their own country. 

The old campaigner, if he read these trifling 
pages would smile at my manner, in stepping 
over so much of interesting and important mat- 
ter. But [ only relate incidents that are con- 
nected with interesting recollections of friends 
I loved, or that are coupled in my memory 
with associations that give double feeling to 
the retrospection. Ido not tell of the triumph 
of Vittoria, of the horrors of St. Sebastian, 
or of similar things, for my retrospections are 
in general fearful. 

Among the grand and elevating scenery of 
the Pyrenees 1 enjoyed the excitation of feel- 
ings which may be termed romantic, but which 
I could not wish to be without. 

Such glorious scenery — such grand and 
awful solitudes of nature it is not necessary to 
have the genius, no, nor the unsocial gloom 
of a Byron, to enjoy. 

17 


190 


MY ADVENTURES 


Never shall 1 forget a morning ushered in 
among the Pyrenees ; but it is not for a pen 
like mine to describe it. Here I delighted to 
take my stand on some lofty height, and look 
beneath me and above, to scenes of deep, deep 
solitude, and awful greatness : in such scenes 
the mind can expand its powers, delight to feel 
them, and rise to the contemplation of objects 
suitable to it. In such scenes we can take a 
more just estimate of ourselves ; when we are 
alone, withdrawn from all our fellows, with the 
mighty works of the Creator around us: and 
we are forced to contemplate his power and 
greatness who ‘ setteth fast the mountains, who 
layeth the foundations of the earth, who cover- 
eth it with the deep as with a garment.’ 

Here, too, where the gush of torrents, the 
scream of eagles, the flapping of the vulture’s 
wing, or, it might be, the long hoarse roll of 
the re-echoed thunder, were the only sounds 
that broke the stillness, thought, feeling, and 
imagination would exercise their sway, and 
the mind at times be overpowered with its 
own sensations. Here, too, would thoughts of 
the past be busy, and memory would stir up 
for a little that mental strife with which silence 
and solitude now agreed, because I had found 
that in these 1 could best obtain a command 
over my rebellious heart, and govern the un- 
ruly workings of my impetuous self-will. 

Here, till the bird of the mountain whistling 
round my head broke off my waking dream ; 


IN PORTUGAL. 


191 


or those faithful attendants on armies, the kite 
and vulture, stooped screaming over me to 
know was •! a prey or not, I would sit and 
hold converse with the absent and the dead, 
and hie over again short seasons of earthly 
sweetness that would never return in reality^ 
Nor in these hours of solitary thought wert 
thou, Courtenay, forgotten ; here, again, I 
would hear in the stillness thy manly voice, I 
would see through the gloom thy open, hon- 
est smile, and 1 would dwell on thy death- 
words to console me for the loss of my friend. 
Charles Fitzmorris had not forgotten Courte- 
nay : he felt his loss deeply ,, he missed his 
society greatly ; but there is a feeling in the 
heart when one loses and laments a friend, 
that will not allow the idea that any one loved 
him, that any one lamented him, as we our- 
selves do. I thought 1 missed him more, I 
thought 1 regretted him more, and 1 strove to 
encourage myself in a belief that allowed me 
to pride myself on a pre-eminence of sorrow 
for him, by remembering that his young 
cousin and he had never been much together 
until lately, that the battalion to which Fitz- 
morris was attached had been on foreign ser- 
vice, and that I had been with Courtenay, 
his friend, his comrade, from the day I joined 
the regiment. Yet 1 did not wish to believe 
that Charles did not regret him, I only wish- 
ed to think that I regretted him more. That 
he did feel, deeply feel, I knew; for often, 


192 


MY ADVENTURES 


when some recollection of Courtenay would 
occur in conversation, he would pause, and 
when he said, with a stifled sigh, ‘ Dear 
Alick !’ his eye would take a deeper shade, 
the colour would grow paler on his cheek, 
and he would throw open his breast as if he 
wished to breathe more freely, as if some 
suffocating sensation came over him. At such 
times he would make me repeat to him again 
the words that our young comrade had spoken 
to me ; and then he would glance up to his 
spirit’s home, and light would come brighter 
to his eye, and his countenance would kindle 
with holy joy and deathless hope, and the an- 
them of his soul as it mounted up in grate- 
ful submission would be. ‘ Even so. Father, 
for so it seemed good in thy sight !’ 

One morning my young comrade and I 
stood together on one of the heights of the 
mountains among which we were encamped. 
The grey light was stealing on through the 
sea, like mist that hung over mountain and 
valley, tree and rock. Gradually the rough 
bold peaks became visible, momentarily re- 
ceiving a tinge or streak of light and losing it 
again — and then again developing themselves 
more fully — while beneath were thick and 
moving columns of vapour, and lower still in 
the valleys, the fog lay deep in settled gloom, 
giving them the appearance of ocean spread 
out at our feet, 


IN PORTUGAL. 


193 


We stood watching the gradual develop- 
ment of nature as her dusky mantle was 
slowly, and to the fanciful eye, reluctantly 
thrown off ; I was observing where its with- 
drawing was revealing to me sights of war 
and tokens of armed hosts dwelling ampng 
such majestic loneliness — but my more ani- 
mated companion seized my arm, and turn- 
ing me away from the contemplation of moun- 
tains and dark rocks, and deep, deep vallies 
below me, where the white tents of our army 
lay like the unbroken avalanche, or scattered 
here and there over the broken ground, inter- 
sected as it was with rook and rivulet, and 
glen and hill, resembled heaps of drifted snow 
that lay there unmelted ; he drew me a little 
towards the verge of the mountain and point- 
ed out to me a different landscape. The fair 
fertile provinces of southern France were un- 
folding their golden aspect beneath the rising 
sun : scenes of rich fertility, and apparently 
smiling happiness lay stretched out beneath 
our feet — to turn to one side and then to 
another, the transition was great, was exquisite. 

‘ I scarcely anticipated actually to stand 
here with you, Traverston, when in supposi- 
tion I drew the sketch of this on the heights 
of Busaco.’ 

‘ No, Charles ; but melhinks it is no bad 
emblem of the Fisgah view you spoke of 
then.’ 


194 


MY ADVENTURES 


‘ And would you make yonder stream the 
river Jordan ?’ be said, pointing with a smile 
to the winding Bidassoa. 

‘ Perhaps it may prove a Jordan to some,’ 
I replied. 

‘ Oh ! happy they to whom it proves the 
passage to Canaan !’ he exclaimed with ani- 
mation. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


On the morning of the memorable seventh 
of October, the Bidassoa was to be crossed, 
and the enemy surprised, if a surprise could 
be effected. We mustered before day-break ; 
it was a silent preparation that carried with it 
a feeling of awe and solemnity to the mind 
that was capable of sober thought. The pale 
star-light duskily revealed the sight of armed 
men, and forming columns — and those 
columns moving away in stillness, while the 
faint streaks of morning began to usher in a 
day of blood, and confusion, and slaughter — 
it was not a scene to be beheld with care- 
lessness. 

We lay down in concealment along the 
bank, waiting till the fall of the tide should 


IN PORTUGAL. 


195 


allow us to ford the river. I felt then for the 
first time, something like a conviction that this 
would be my last engagement, and I do not 
tliink I felt sorry for it : I felt that it was a 
sole^mn thing to die, yet I trust too, I felt 
ready, willing. For what should I wish to 
live? — this world had often deceived me — 
life had often pained me — my own heart bad 
often grieved me. Thus I was thinking, when 
the conversation I had formerly with my 
young counsellor, Charles Fitzmorris, recur- 
red to my mind, and I thought how much 
more animating was the view he took of death. 
I viewed it in this light too, and I found rea- 
son to hope, that I in some degree, at least, 
shared the feelings with which he looked for- 
ward to life’s termination. It is not for me 
to say how many among us shared the serious 
reflections that engrossed myself ; there was 
levity and carlessness, and thoughtless gaiety 
enough about me, but, ‘ both the inward 
thoughts of every man and the heart is deep.’ 

While they passed in my own mind, I turn- 
ed my head, and saw Charles gazing with a 
look of intensity on the course of the river : 
what was then in his mind I know not ; but 
as he lay reclining on his arm, and turned his 
head up to the bright sky above us, the ex- 
pression of his beaming countenance was al- 
most seraphic ; a calm holiness seemed 
breathed over every feature ; yet there was 
so much ardour, such a look of devotedness, 


196 


MY ADVENTURES 


of — no, I cannot describe it ; I have seeUf 
but 1 could not paint it. 

When the signal of advance was given, he 
started lightly up, an animation seemed dif- 
fused over his whole person ; his air, his 
whole appearance that day, were noted by 
others as well as myself. 

Well, the Bidassoa was crossed — Charles 
and 1 waded it together ; and as we reached 
the French bank, he grasped my hand warm- 
ly in his, but not a word was exchanged. 

The event of that memorable day is well 
known. When the enemy was retreating, and 
our troops crowning the heights from which 
they were driven, while ascending with my 
party, the side of an eminence, I saw Dever- 

eux kneeling on the ground. I stopped 

Well ! was 1 never to be familiar with death ? 
— why did ray knees strike together as if I 
saw it seize suddenly on a friend in an hour 
of peace and security ? — Oh Charles, Charles, 
my companion, my guide, and my familiar 
friend, 1 could not vent over you one plaint of 
the anguish that wrung my bursting heart ! 
I could have flung myself beside you, 1 could 
have cried, ‘ Would to God I had died for 
•thee !’ but no ; this could not be ; and I pass- 
ed on while life was bursting from your noble 
breast. I only received that parting pressure, 
heard only that last word which said, a thought 
was still given to earth — ‘ my father !’ — saw 
only that dying smile as the glories of heaven 


IN PORTUGAL. 


197 

broke over your ransomed spirit which passed 
away with that death-welcoming smile to en- 
joy its blessedness ! 

When the hurry of the fight was over I 
came back. There he lay his sweet fair 
face w’as pale, but that angelic smile still play- 
ed upon his lip ; the tangled ringlets of his 
hair through which I had often seen his poor 
father pass his fingers with a smile at, what 
he called, their effeminate silkiness, were toss- 
ed and damp here and there with a dark red 
stain ; his figure, late so animate, with the 
elastic grace of youth, was stiff ; and the hand 
that had in the morning grasped mine so 
warmly, was cold and motionless — -still the 
lineaments of death were lovely. 

His father was not with our division of the 
army. Devereux and I buried our comrade 
in a small grove of willows, and placed a stone 
over the tomb to guard the beloved deposite 
we left there. There, when his father, after 
the fall of Pampeluna, joined us, I conducted 
him : there I left him. 


18 


198 


MY ADVENTURES 


CONCLUStON. 


And now here end my retrospections : while 
tracing them at this point, I felt the full truth 
of my poor Amy’s words, when she warned 
me of the danger of setting my affections too 
firmly on aught below the skies. I have ever 
been prone to do so, and 1 have ever suffered 
for it ; and now, when my last temptation to 
this is returned to dust, why should I tell how 
1 was made to suffer for my error? Yet while 
writing these few pages, 1 have sighed a fare- 
well to other friends, and shall I not to thee, 
brother of my soul, whose young, unwounded, 
unblunted affection, made me amends for 
many a wound that had been given me, and 
would longer have festered in my heart, had I 
not known thee ? — to thee, my endeared 
companion, whose piety edified, whose faith 
strengthened, whose example encouraged me? 
Too truly those waters were to you as the 
Jordan that conducted you to the Canaan 
your happy spirit longed for ! 1 did not think 
that I should be left alone like a seared leaf 
on the tree, when the green ones are fallen. 
Yet my brother shall rise again — the trumpet 
shall once more awaken us ; and when at that 


IN PORTUGAL. 19D 

isummons .the earth shall unclose her dead, 
then shall I see thee again. 

I paint not Fitzmorris’s feelings ; how could 
I paint that which language could not utter — * 
nor expression make known, that which was 
neither seen nor heard ? When I saw him 
again after a little time had elapsed, methought 
his hair was grown much more grey — his 
martial figure was not quite so erect — his 
eyes too had a somewhat languid look that 
was not natural to them. 

When peace was proclaimed, 1 returned 
along with many others to England : there I 
saw Louisa and her little girl ; she was still 
in weeds, and will, I believe, always be so. 
She trembled slightly when I went in, but 
still she was, I am sure, glad to see me. The 
child, a beautiful and softened little miniature 
of poor Courtenay, was playing in the room. 
She climbed the back of my chair, and put 
her little mouth round to my face to say, ‘ f 
am fond of soldiers, for my good papa was a 
soldier ; and 1 know who you are - — the man 
papa was so fond of.’ 

I caught her in my arms, but her poor 
mother hastily left the room, for the intended 
whisper of little Alice was very audible : and 
I was glad she did, for when there is a watery 
tremulousness in a man’s eye, he likes some- 
how, to be alone. 

It was after this 1 returned to the well-re- 
membered old glebe ; an event that has al- 


200 


MY ADVENTURES 


ready been related. I have beerv there sev- 
eral times since, but never totally unmoved* 
The last time that 1 went there was to have 
my poor father’s grave opened, to inter there- 
in my dear venerable mother. They little 
thought, perhaps, that their wandering son 
would perform this office for them. Poor 
man ! he wished to be buried where he had 
lived and preached so long, and so I had his 
grave dug near that white stone already al- 
luded to : and then I had another proof that 
!lorrow does not dart all her shafts on us when 
we are young, and our fresh feelings and 
strong affections add to their poignancy — no, 
as I said before, while on this side eternity, 
though we may seem settled down into the 
selfish enjoyments of middle age, or the dull 
apathy of protracted years, still we can never 
say, until we have done with life, that we 
will feel, will suffer, will sorrow, will part no 
more. 

And that proof was no unmoving one ; to 
see an old woman tottering on the borders of 
that grave to which she had just consigned the 
companion of her life ; to see her obliged to 
leave the home of her married life, where all 
her children had been born and reared ; from 
whence her wishes had never wandered, her 
hopes never moved -^except towards heaven ; 
to see her obliged to give it up to strangers, 
and to seek another for the short, short time 
that would intervene till she should lay her 


PORTUGAL. 


201 


bones beside him with whom she had lived, 
with whom, had her will been consulted, she 
would gladly have died yes, it was dis^ 
tressing ! 

A home was offered her in each of her 
married children’s houses : I had none to 
offer, but 1 wished much to have her near me, 
to feel that I had still a link to earth while I 
could care for, and feel for my mother; and, 
kind, tender-hearted woman, with that self- 
renunciation that always characterized her, 
that characterizes almost all mothers, she de- 
termined to take up her abode in the town 
where I was quartered, until my removal. 
Before that occurred she had entered into ‘ a 
house not made with hands, eternal in the 
heavens,’ ‘ whence she shall go no more out.’ 
1 returned to the glebe, now occupied by 
strangers, to lay her in the grave with her 
husband. I enclosed the spot where they 
rest, with an iron railing, taking in the tomb 
beside it, and — shall I be charged with folly, 
weakness? No matter — leaving a vacancy 
between them, where he who writes these 
pages hopes to rest. 

Fitzmorris left the army on the conclusion 
of the war ; he retired to his native country, 
Scotland ; and Louisa and her little girl went 
with him. 1 lately visited them there : there 
was no allusion made to the friends that were 
gone, except once, when Fitzmorris, speaking 
to the child, said ‘ Alick,’ instead of ‘ Alice,’ 


202 MY ADVENtURifiS IN RORtOGAL. 

Louisa turned a little paler than she was be- 
fore, but there was a resignation, a chastened 
calm expression on her face, that told me her 
uncle’s society, and her uncle’s example had 
not been useless, that Courtenay’s dying mes- 
sage had not been unheeded ; that Louisa had 
called on the God of the widow and the fath- 
erless, had sought Him in the day of afflic- 
tion, and been answered by Him^ 

I had filled poor Courtenay’s place, and 
Devereux now occupies it. He is my chief 
companion and friend. The lesson he re- 
ceived on the heights of Andaye was not 
thrown away ; he saw that the righteous hath 
hope in his death ; and the good that Charles 
Fitzmorris had begun in his life, his death 
completed. Devereux is now a worthy and 
respected officer, and, what is better, he is a 
Bible-taught Christian. He and 1 often spend 
a quiet evening together when on out-quar^ 
ters, or in an uninteresting garrison town : we 
talk over other days, and though we may 
both, in different ways, have tasted of trials 
and sorrows, as what man has not ; still we 
can both look and say or feel with thankful^ 
ness. He hath led me all my life long. He 
hath crowned me with loving kindnesses and 
tender mercies — His judgments of old are 
faithfulness and truth. 



THE END. 








i 




^ ',u'., . t •-I- - ' . ■* ‘ '• 



^fi 


' •- n 


4 





'I ^ 

C*'t 



-f ' : inii, i’.t',"’- 


. < Vv . ^ ^ 




1 »> 





-• 




■i^' 















r^'Cv' • 7 ‘U" 

i\ 


li* • ''i ' 

• *l m 








- » 






•*> V 


* r» 


^ . / 



rhi7-^.0' 




¥. 



i 


• I 







4 . ^ •^ . 

‘ * 

' • ■ ^ri •■ -V 

-*'■ • \ 

a • 




I 


•“V 


*■4 


Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent; Magnesium Oxide 


Treatment Date; 



JUL 


1996 


BBI^I^EEPER 

PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC. 

111 Thomson Park Drive 


Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412) 779-2111 






